The Road to Frontenac

During the next day they passed on up the stream to the Coteau des Cedres. Menard and Father Claude were both accustomed to take the rapid without carrying, or even unloading, but Danton looked at the swirling water with doubt in his eyes. When the maid, leaning back in the canoe while the men halted at the bank to make fast for the passage, saw the torrent that tumbled and pitched merrily down toward them, she laughed. To hold a sober mood for long was not in her buoyant nature, and she welcomed a dash of excitement as a relief from the strained relations of the two days just gone.

“M’sieu,” she called to Menard, with a sparkle in her eyes. “Oh, M’sieu, may I stay in the canoe?”

Danton turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and a look, half of pain, half of surprise, came over his face as he saw her eagerness. Menard looked at her in doubt.

“It may be a wet passage, Mademoiselle.”

“And why not, M’sieu? Have I not been wet before? See, I will protect myself.” She drew the bundles closely about her feet, and threw a blanket across her knees. “Now I can brave the stream, Captain. Or,”–her gay tone dropped, and she looked demurely at him,–“perhaps it is that I am too heavy, that I should carry myself up the bank. I will obey my orders, Captain.” But as she spoke she tucked the blanket closer about her, and stole another glance at Menard.

He smiled. He was thinking of Madame Gordeau and her fragile daughter, who had shuddered with fear at a mere glimpse of the first rapid. “Very well,” he said, “Mademoiselle shall stay in the canoe.”

“But it is not safe”–broke in Danton, stepping forward. Then, conscious of the blunder, he turned away, and took up the rope.

“Lay hold, boys,” said Menard.

Perrot and one of the new men waded into the water, and laid hold of the gunwales on each side of the bow. Menard himself took the stern. He called to Danton, who stood awkwardly upon the bank, “Take the rope with the men.”

Guerin made the rope fast and set out ahead, with the other men and Danton close behind. Father Claude rolled up his robe and joined them.

“Wait,” called Menard, as the rope straightened. “Mademoiselle, I am sorry to disturb you, but if you will sit farther back you will have less trouble from the spray.” He waded along the side, and helped her to move nearer the stern, placing the bundles and the blanket about her as before. Then he shouted, “All right,” and they started into the foaming water.

They toiled slowly up the incline, catching at rocks to steady their course, and often struggling for a foothold. Once Menard ordered a halt at a large rock, and all rested for a moment.

When they started again, the men at the bow of the canoe had some trouble in holding it steady, for their feet were on a stretch of smooth rock, and Menard called Danton back to help them. The boy worked his way along the rope, and reached the bow.

“Come around behind Perrot,” said Menard.

Danton reached around Perrot’s body, and caught hold of the gunwale. At that moment his foot slipped, and he fell, dragging the side of the canoe down with him. The men at the bow did their best to prevent a capsize, but succeeded only in keeping half the bundles in the canoe. The others, the muskets, and the maid went into the river.

Menard moved forward as rapidly as he could against the current. The maid was unable at once to get her feet, used as she was to the water, and was swept down against him. He caught her, and, steadying himself with one hand, by the water-logged canoe, raised her head and held her while she struggled for a footing and shook the water from her eyes. Before she was wholly herself, Danton came plunging toward them.

“Give her to me!” he said huskily. “I’ve drowned her! My God, let me have her!”

“Stop,” said Menard, sternly. “Take the men, and go after those bales–quick!”

Danton looked stupidly at him and at the maid, who was wiping the water from her face with one hand, and holding tightly to the Captain. Then he followed Perrot, who had already, with the two new men and Father Claude, commenced to get together the bales, most of which had sunk, and were moving slowly along the bottom. Menard still had his arm about the girl’s shoulders. He helped her to the shore.

“Keep moving, Mademoiselle,–don’t sit down. In a moment we shall have a fire. Father Claude,” he called, “bring the canoe ashore.” Then to the maid, “There are yet some dry blankets, thank God.”

Mademoiselle was herself now, and she protested. “But it is only water, M’sieu. Let me go on with you, beyond the rapids.”

Menard merely shook his head. The canoe was soon on the bank, and emptied of water. The other men were beginning to come in with soaked bundles and dripping muskets. Each bale was opened, and the contents spread out to dry, while Guerin was set to work at drying the muskets with a cloth. Perrot and Danton built a rough shelter for the maid, enclosing a small fire, and gave her some dry blankets. Then each man dried himself as best he could.

This accident threw Danton into a fit of gloominess from which nothing seemed to arouse him. He was careless of his duty, and equally careless to the reprimands that followed. This went on for two days, during which the maid seemed at one moment to avoid him, and at another to watch for his coming. In the evening of the second day following, the party camped at Pointe à Baudet, on Lake St. Francis. The supper was eaten in a silence more oppressive than usual, for neither Menard nor Father Claude could overcome the influence of Danton’s heavy face and the maid’s troubled eyes. After the supper the two strolled away, and sat just out of earshot on a mossy knoll. For hours they talked there, their voices low, save once or twice when Danton’s rose. They seemed to have lost all count of time, all heed of appearances. Menard and the priest made an effort at first to appear unobservant, but later, seeing that their movements were beyond the sight of those unheeding eyes, they took to watching and speculating on the course of the conversation. The night came on, and the dark closed over them. Still the murmur of those low voices floated across the camp.

Father Claude, with a troubled mind, went down to the water, and walked slowly up and down. Menard saw to the final preparations for the night, and posted the first sentry. Then he joined the priest.

“Father?”

“Yes.”

“I think it is time to speak.”

“I fear it is, M’sieu.”

“I must leave it in your hands.”

“Shall I go now?”

“Yes.”

Without further words, Father Claude walked up the bank, crackling through the bushes. From this spot the voices were inaudible, and for a few moments there was no sound. Then Menard could hear some one moving heavily through the undergrowth, going farther and farther into the stillness, and he knew that it was Danton. He sat on the bank with his back against a tree, and waited for a long hour. At last he dropped asleep.

He was awakened by Father Claude. The priest dropped to the ground beside him. His training had given Menard the faculty of awaking instantly into full grasp of a situation.

“Well,” he said. “Where is the maid?”

“She has gone to her couch, but not to sleep, I fear. It has come, M’sieu.”

“What has come?”

“Danton has lost his senses. He asks her to marry him, to flee with him. It is a difficult case. She has had no such experience before, and knows not how to receive him. She seems to have no love for him, beyond the pleasure his flattery has given her. She believes all he says. One thing I know, aside from all questions of expediency, of care for our trust, this must not go on.”

“Not for the present, at least. She may do what she will, once we have taken her safely to Frontenac.”

“No, M’sieu; not even then. We must stop it at once.”

“Oh, of course,” said Menard; “so far as we are concerned, we have no choice. You need not bother longer to-night. I will wait for the boy. I am sorry for him.”

“I should have more pity, if I knew less of his past.”

“Tush, Father! He is not a bad fellow, as they go. To be sure he does not rise any too well to new responsibilities, but he will grow into it. It is better an honest infatuation with the daughter of a gentleman than a dishonest one with an Indian maid. And you know our officers, Father. God knows, they are all bad enough; and yet they are loyal fellows.”

“Ah, M’sieu, I fear you will be too lenient with him. Believe me, we have not a minute to waste in stopping the affair.”

“Have no fear, Father. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

Menard lay on the bank, gazing at the sparkling water, and listening to the slow step of the sentry and to the deeper sounds of the forest. Another hour crept by, and still Danton had not returned. Menard walked about the camp to make sure that he was not already rolled in his blanket; then he went to the sentry, who was leaning against a tree a few rods away.

“Colin,” he said, “have you seen Lieutenant Danton?”

“Yes, M’sieu. He is up there.” Colin pointed through the trees that fringed the river. “I heard a noise some time ago, and went up to see. He is lying under a beech tree, if he has not moved,–and I should have heard him if he had. It may be that he is asleep.”

Menard nodded, and walked slowly along the bank, bending aside the briers that caught at his clothes and his hands.

CHAPTER VI.

THE FIGHT AT LA GALLETTE

Danton was lying on the ground, but he was not asleep. He looked up, at the sound of Menard’s footsteps, and then, recognizing him, lowered his eyes again. The Captain hesitated, standing over the prostrate figure.

“Danton,” he said finally, “I want you to tell me the truth.”

The boy made no reply, and Menard, after waiting for a moment, sat upon a log.

“I have decided to do rather an unusual thing, Danton,” he said slowly, “in offering to talk it over with you as a friend, and not as an officer. In one thing you must understand me: Mademoiselle St. Denis has been intrusted to my care, and until she has safely reached those who have a right to share the direction of her actions, I can allow nothing of this sort to go on. You must understand that. If you will talk with me frankly, and try to control yourself for the present, it may be that I can be of service to you later on.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Danton spoke, without raising his head.

“Is there need of this, M’sieu? Is it not enough that she–that Mademoiselle dismisses me?”

“Oh,” said Menard, “that is it?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure of yourself, Danton? sure that you have not made a mistake?”

“A mistake?” The boy looked up wildly. “I was–shall I tell you, M’sieu?–I left the camp to-night with the thought that I should never go back.”

Menard looked at him curiously.

“What did you plan to do?”

“I didn’t know,–I don’t know now. Back to Montreal, perhaps to the Iroquois. I don’t care where.”

“You did not bring your musket. It would hardly be safe.”

“Safe!” There was weary contempt in the boy’s voice. He sat up, and made an effort to steady himself, leaning back upon his hands. “I should not say this. It was what I thought at first. I am past it now; I can think better. It was only your coming,–when I first saw you, it came rushing back, and I wanted to–oh, what is the use? You do not know. You cannot understand.”

“And now?”

“Now, Captain, I ask for a release. Let me go back to Montreal.”

“How would you go? You have no canoe.”

“I will walk.”

Menard shook his head.

“I am sorry,” he said, “but it is too late. In the first place, you would never reach the city. There are scouting bands of Iroquois all along the river.”

“So much the better, M’sieu, so–”

“Wait. That is only one reason. I cannot spare you. I have realized within the last day that I should have brought more men. The Iroquois know of our campaign; they are watching us. A small party like this is to their liking. I will tell you, Danton, we may have a close rub before we get to Frontenac. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. What reason could I give for sending you alone down the river to Montreal? You forget, boy, that we are not on our own pleasure; we are on the King’s errand. For you to go now would be to take away one of our six fighting men,–to imperil Mademoiselle. And that, I think,” he looked keenly at Danton, “is not what you would wish to do.”

The boy’s face was by turns set and working. He looked at Menard as if to speak, but got nothing out. At last he sprang to his feet, and paced back and forth between the trees.

“What can I do?” he said half to himself. “I can’t stay! I can’t see her every day, and hear her voice, and sit with her at every meal. Why do you call yourself my friend, Menard? Why don’t you help? Why don’t you say something–?”

“There are some things, Danton, that a man must fight out alone.”

Danton turned away, and stood looking over the river. Menard sat on the log and waited. The moments slipped by, and still they said nothing. They could hear the stirring of Colin, back at the camp, and the rustle of the low night breeze. They could almost hear the great silent rush of the river.

“Danton.”

The boy half turned his head.

“You will stay here and play the man. You will go on with your duties; though, if the old arrangement be too hard, I will be your master in the Iroquois study, leaving Mademoiselle to Father Claude. And now you must return to the camp and get what sleep you can. Heaven knows we may have little enough between here and Frontenac. Come.”

He got up, and walked to the camp, without looking around. Danton lingered until the Captain’s tall figure was blending with the shadows of the forest, then he went after.

During the following day they got as far as the group of islands at the head of Lake St. Francis. Wherever possible Menard was now selecting islands or narrow points for the camp, where, in case of a night attack, defence would be a simple problem for his few men. Also, each night, he had the men spread a circle of cut boughs around the camp at a little distance, so that none could approach without some slight noise. Another night saw the party at the foot of Petit Chesneaux, just above Pointe Maligne.

While Perrot was preparing the supper, and Danton, with the voyageurs, was unpacking the bales, Menard took his musket and strode off into the forest. There was seldom a morning now that the maid did not have for her breakfast a morsel of game which the Captain’s musket had brought down.

In half an hour he returned, and sought Father Claude; and after a few low words the two set off. Menard led the way through thicket and timber growth, over a low hill, and down into a hollow, where a well-defined Indian trail crossed a brook. Here was a large sugar maple tree standing in a narrow opening in the thicket. Menard struck a light, and held up a torch so that the priest could make out a blaze-mark on the tree.

“See,” said Menard. “It is on the old trail. I saw it by the merest chance.”

Father Claude bent forward, with his eyes close to the inscription that had been painted on the white inner bark, with charcoal and bear’s grease.

“Can you read it?” asked Menard, holding the torch high.

The priest nodded. Both of these men knew the Indian writing nearly as well as their own French.

“He does not know of the two men you got at Montreal, M’sieu. He tells of only six in our canoe.”

“No? But that matters little. The Beaver has hurried after him with nearly a score. They can give us trouble enough. What do you make of the huts? Do they mean three days or four?”

“It looks to me,” said the priest slowly, “that he was interrupted in drawing the fourth.”

“Well,”–Menard threw his torch into the brook, and turned away into the dusk of the thicket,–“we know enough. The fight will be somewhere near the head of the rapids. Perhaps they will wait until we get on into the islands.”

“And meantime,” said the priest, as they crackled through the undergrowth, “we shall say nothing of this to Lieutenant Danton or the maid?”

“Nothing,” Menard replied.

In three days more they had passed Rapide Flat, after toiling laboriously by the Long Sault. They were a sober enough party now, oppressed with Danton’s dogged attention to duty and with the maid’s listless manner.

They were passing a small island the next morning, when Perrot gave a shout and stopped paddling.

“What is it?” asked Menard, sharply.

Perrot pointed across a spit of land. In the other channel they could see a bateau just disappearing behind a clump of trees. It was headed down-stream. Menard swung the canoe about, and they skirted the foot of the island. Instead of a single bateau there were some half dozen, drifting light down the river, with a score of coureurs de bois and voyageurs under the command of a bronzed lieutenant, Du Peron, a sergeant, and a corporal. The lieutenant recognized Menard, and both parties landed while the two officers exchanged news.

“Can you spare me a few men?” Menard asked, when they had drawn apart from the others.

The lieutenant’s eye roamed over the group on the beach, where the men of both parties were mingling.

“How many do you want? I’m running shorthanded. We have all we can manage with these bateaux.”

“There’s a war party of twenty on my trail,” said Menard. “If I had my own men with me I should feel safe, but I have my doubts about these fellows. I haven’t room for more than two.”

“What’s the trouble?–that La Grange affair?”

Menard nodded.

“I heard that they had a price on your head. There’s been a good deal of talk about it at Frontenac. A converted Mohawk has been scouting for us, and he says that the Onondagas blame you for that whole galley business.”

“I know,” said Menard, grimly. “You could hardly expect them to get the truth of it.”

“It was bad work, Menard, bad work. The worst thing La Grange did was to butcher the women and children. He was drunk at the time, and the worst of it was over before d’Orvilliers got wind of it. Do you know who is leading this war party?”

“The Long Arrow.”

“Oh, yes. A big fellow, with a rather noticeable wampum collar. He came to Frontenac as a Mission Indian, but got away before we suspected anything. Our scout told me that his son was in the party that was taken to the galleys. He’s been scouting along the river ever since. Likely as not he followed you down to Quebec. How many men have you now?”

“Five, and Father Claude.”

“He could shoot at a pinch, I suppose. I’ll let you have the best two I have, but–” Du Peron shrugged his shoulders–“you know the sort that are assigned for this transport work. They’re a bad lot at best. But they can shoot, and they hate the Iroquois, so you’re all right if you can keep them sober. That will make nine, with yourself,–it should be enough.”

“It will be enough. How is the transport moving?”

“Splendidly. Whatever we may say about the new Governor, our Intendant knows his business. I judge from the way he is stocking up Frontenac, that we are to use it as the base for a big campaign.”

“I suppose so. You will report, will you, at Montreal, that we were safe at Rapide Flat? And if you find a coureur going down to Quebec, I wish you would send word to Provost that Mademoiselle St. Denis is well and in good spirits.”

The lieutenant looked curiously at the maid, who was walking with Father Claude near the canoe. Then the two officers shook hands, and in a few moments were going their ways, Menard with two villainous voyageurs added to his crew. That afternoon he passed the last rapid, and beached the canoe at La Gallette, thankful that nothing intervened between them and Fort Frontenac but a reach of still water and the twining channels of the Thousand Islands, where it would call for the sharpest eyes ever set in an Iroquois head to follow his movements.

They ate an early supper, and immediately afterward Father Claude slipped away. The maid looked after him a little wistfully, then she wandered to the bank, and found a mossy seat where she could watch the long rapid, with its driving, foaming current that dashed over the ledges and leaped madly around the jagged rocks. Menard set his men at work preparing the camp against attack. When this was well under way he called Danton, who was lying by the fire, and spent an hour with him conversing in Iroquois. By that time the twilight was creeping down the river. Menard left the boy to form a speech in accord with Iroquois tradition, and went on a tour of inspection about the camp. The new men had swung thoroughly into the spirit of their work; one of them was already on guard a short way back in the woods. The other men were grouped in a cleared place, telling stories and singing.

Father Claude came hurriedly toward the fire, looking for Menard. His eyes glowed with enthusiasm.

“M’sieu,” he said, in an eager voice, “come. I have found it.”

“What?”

“It has come to me,–about the canoe.”

Menard looked puzzled, but the priest caught his arm, and led him away.

“It came while we ate supper. The whole truth, the secret of the allegory, flashed upon me. I have worked hard, and now it is done. Instead of leaving out the canoe, I have put it back, and have placed in it six warriors, three paddling toward the chapel, and three away from it. Over them hovers an angel,–a mere suggestion, a faint, shining face, a diaphanous form, and outspread hands. Thus we symbolize the conflict in the savage mind at the first entrance of the Holy Word into their lives, with the blessed assurance over all that the Faith must triumph in the end.”

At the last words, he stopped and drew Menard around to face the portrait of the Lily of the Onondagas, which was leaning against a stump.

“Is it too dark, M’sieu? See, I will bring it closer.” He lifted the picture, and held it close to Menard’s eyes. He was trembling with the excitement of his inspiration.

The Captain stepped back.

“I should like to know, Father, where you have had this picture.”

“It was in my bundle. I have”–for the first time he saw the sternness in Menard’s face, and his voice faltered.

“You did not leave it at Montreal?”

Father Claude slowly lowered the canvas to the ground. The light had gone out of his eyes, and his face was white. Then suddenly his thin form straightened. “I had forgotten. It was M’sieu’s order. See,”–he suddenly lifted the picture over his head and whirled to the stump,–“it shall go no farther. We will leave it here for the wolves and the crows and the pagan redmen.”

He dashed it down with all his strength, but Menard sprang forward, and caught it on his outstretched arm. “No, Father,” he said; “we will take it with us.”

The priest smiled wearily, and lowered the picture to the ground; but when Menard said, “You have broken it,” he raised it hastily, and examined it. One corner of the wooden frame was loosened, but the canvas was not injured.

“I can mend it,” he said.

Then they walked to the camp together, without talking; and Menard helped him repair the frame, and pack the picture carefully.

“How is it that it was not ruined in the capsize at Coteau des Cedres?” Menard asked.

“It was preserved by a miracle, M’sieu. This bundle did not leave the canoe.”

The voyageurs, still lounging in the clearing, were laughing and talking noisily. The Captain, after he had prepared the maid’s couch, and bade her good-night, called to them to be quiet. For a time the noise ceased, but a little later, as he was spreading his blanket on the ground, it began again, and one of the transport men sang the opening strain of a ribald song. Menard strode over to the group so quickly that he took them by surprise. Colin was slipping something behind him, but he could not escape Menard’s eye. In a moment he was sprawling on his face, and a brandy flask was brought to light. Menard dashed it against a tree, and turned to the frightened men.

“Go to your blankets, every man of you. There are Iroquois on this river. You have already made enough noise to draw them from half a league away. The next man that is caught drinking will be flogged.” He thought of the maid lying under her frail shelter, for whose life he was responsible. “If it occurs twice, he will be shot. Perrot, I want you to join the sentry. From now on we shall have two men on guard all night. See that there is no mistake about this. At the slightest noise, you will call me.”