The Road to Frontenac

He peeled a long strip of bark from the birch tree, and rolled it into a cup. “Your needle and thread, Mademoiselle,–if they have not taken them.”

“No; I have everything here.”

She got her needle, and under his direction stitched the edges of the bark.

“But it will leak, M’sieu.”

He laughed. “The tree is the Indian’s friend, Mademoiselle. Now it is a pine tree that we need. The guards will tell me of one.”

He walked over to the little group of warriors still at their game of platter,–the one never-ceasing recreation of the Onondagas, at which they would one day gamble away blankets, furs, homes, even squaws, only to win them back on the next. They looked at him suspiciously when he questioned them; but he was now as light of heart as on the day, a few weeks earlier, when he had leaned on the balcony of the citadel at Quebec, idly watching the river. He smiled at them, and after a parley the maid saw one tall brave point to a tree a few yards farther in the wood. They followed him closely with their eyes until he was back within the space allowed him.

“Now, Mademoiselle, we can gum the seams,–see? It is so easy. The cold water will harden it.”

They went together to the spring and filled the cup, first drinking each a draught. He rolled a large stone to the hut door, and set the cup on it.

“Oh, Mademoiselle, it will not stand. I am not a good workman, I fear. But then, it is not often in a woodsman’s life that he keeps flowers at his door. We must have some smaller stones to prop it up.”

“I will get them, M’sieu.” In spite of his protests she ran out to the path and brought some pebbles. “Now we have decorated our home.” She sat upon the ground, leaning against the log wall, and smiling up at him. “Sit down, M’sieu. I am tired of being solemn, we have been solemn so long.”

Already the heaviness was coming back on the Captain. He wondered, as he looked at her, if she knew how serious their situation was. It hardly seemed that she could understand it, her gay mood was so genuine. She glanced up again, and at the sight of the settling lines about his mouth and the fading sparkle in his eyes, her own eyes, while the smile still hovered, grew moist.

“I am sorry,” she said softly,–“very, very sorry.”

He sat near by, and fingered the flowers in the birch cup. They were both silent. Finally she spoke.

“M’sieu.”

He looked down.

“It may be that you think that–that I do not understand. It is not that, M’sieu. But when I think about it, and the sadness comes, I know, some way, that it is going to come out all right. We are prisoners, but other people have been prisoners, too. I have heard of many of them from Father Dumont. He himself has suffered among the Oneidas. I–I cannot believe it, even when it seems the darkest.”

“I hope you are right, Mademoiselle. I, too, have felt that there must be a way. And at the worst, they will not dare to hurt Father Claude and–you.” And under his breath he added, “Thank God.”

“They will not dare to hurt you, M’sieu. They must not do it.” She rose and stood before him. “When I think of that,–that you, who have done so much that I might be safe, are in danger, I feel that it would be cowardly for me to go away without you. You would not have left me, on the river. I know you would have died without a thought. And I–if anything should happen, M’sieu; if Father Claude and I should be set free, and–without you–I could never put it from my thoughts. I should always feel that I–that you–no no, M’sieu. They cannot do it.”

She shook away a tear, and looked at him with an honest, fearless gaze. It was the outpouring of a grateful heart, true because she herself was true, because she could not accept his care and sacrifice without a thought of what she owed him.

“You forget,” he said gently, “that it was not your fault. They could have caught me as easily if you had not been there. It is a soldier’s chance, Mademoiselle. He must take what life brings, with no complaint. It is the young man’s mistake to be restless, impatient. For the rest of us, why, it is our life.”

“But, M’sieu, you are not discouraged? You have not given up?”

“No, I have not given up.” He rose and looked into her eyes. “I have come through before; I may again. If I am not to get through, I shall fight them till I drop. And then, I pray God, I may die like a soldier.”

He turned away and went into the hut. He was in the hardest moment of his trial. It was the inability to fight, the lack of freedom, of weapons, the sense of helplessness, that had come nearer to demoralizing Menard than a hundred battles. He had been trusted with the life of a maid, and, more important still, with the Governor’s orders. He was, it seemed, to fail.

The maid stood looking after him. She heard him drop to the ground within. Then she roamed aimlessly about, near the building.

Father Claude came up the path, walking slowly and wearily, and entered the hut. A moment later Menard appeared in the doorway and called:–

“Mademoiselle.” As she approached, he said gravely, “I should like it if you will come in with us. It is right that you should have a voice in our councils.”

She followed him in, wondering.

“Father Claude has news,” Menard said.

The priest told them all that he had been able to learn. Runners had been coming in during the night at intervals of a few hours. They brought word of the landing of the French column at La Famine. The troops had started inland toward the Seneca villages. The Senecas were planning an ambush, and meanwhile had sent frantic messages to the other tribes for aid. The Cayuga chiefs were already on the way to meet in council with the Onondagas. The chance that the attack might be aimed only at the Senecas, to punish them for their depredations of the year before, had given rise to a peace sentiment among the more prudent Onondagas and Cayugas, who feared the destruction of their fields and villages. Up to the present, none had known where the French would strike. But, nevertheless, said the priest, the general opinion was favourable to taking up the quarrel with the Senecas.

Further, the French were leaving a rearguard of four hundred men in a hastily built stockade at La Famine, and the more loose-tongued warriors were already talking of an attack on this force, cutting the Governor’s communications, and then turning on him from the rear, leaving it to the Senecas to engage him in front.

CHAPTER IX.

THE WORD OF AN ONONDAGA

For a long time after Father Claude had finished speaking, the three sat talking over the situation. Even the maid had suggestions. But when all had been said, when the chances of a rescue by the French, or of getting a hearing before the council, even of a wild dash for liberty, had been gone over and over, their voices died away, and the silence was eloquent. D’Orvilliers would know that only capture could have prevented them from reaching the fort; but even supposing him to believe that they were held by the Onondagas, he had neither the men nor the authority to fight through the Cayuga lakes and hills to reach them. As for the Governor’s column, it would have its hands full before marching ten leagues from La Famine. Had Menard been alone, he would have made the attempt to escape, knowing from the start that the chance was near to nothing, but glad of the opportunity at least to die fighting. But with Mademoiselle to delay their progress, and to suffer his fate if captured, it was different. As matters stood, she was likely to be released with Father Claude, as soon as he should be disposed of. And so his mind had settled on staying, and dying, if he must, alone.

“I have not known whether to tell all,” said Father Claude, after the silence. “And yet it would seem that Mademoiselle may as well know the truth now as later.”

“You have not told me?” she said, with reproach in her voice. “Must I always be a child to you, Father? If God has seen it best to place me here, am I not to help bear the burden?”

“Mademoiselle is right, Father. Hold nothing back. Three stout hearts are better than two.”

The priest looked gravely at the fire.

“The word has gone out,” he said. “The Long Arrow, by his energy and his eloquence, but most of all because he had the courage to capture the Big Buffalo in the enemy’s country with but a score of braves, now controls the village. To-morrow night the great council will begin. The war chiefs of all the Cayuga and Onondaga and Oneida and Mohawk villages will meet here and decide whether to take up the hatchet against the white men. The Long Arrow well knows that his power will last only until the greater chiefs come, and he will have his revenge before his day wanes.”

“When?” asked the Captain.

“To-morrow morning, M’sieu. The feasting and dancing will begin to-night.”

The maid was looking at the priest. “I do not understand,” she said. “What will he do?”

“He means me, Mademoiselle,” said the Captain, quietly.

“Not–” she said, “not–”

“Yes,” he replied. “They will bring us no food to-night. In the morning they will come for me.”

“Oh, M’sieu, they cannot! They–” She gazed at him, not heeding the tears that suddenly came to her eyes and fell down upon her cheeks; and, as she looked, she understood what was in his mind. “Why do you not escape, M’sieu? There is yet time,–to-night! You are thinking of me, and I–I–Oh, I have been selfish–I did not know! We will stay here, Father Claude and I. You need not think of us; they will not harm us–you told me that yourself, M’sieu. I should be in your way, but alone–it is so easy.” She would have gone on, but Menard held up his hand.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “no.”

Her lips moved, but she saw the expression in his eyes, and the words died. She turned to Father Claude, but he did not look up.

“I do not know,” said Menard, slowly, “whether the heart of the Big Throat is still warm toward me. He was once as my father.”

“He will not be here in time,” Father Claude said. “He does not start from his village until the sun is dropping on the morrow.”

The maid could not take her eyes from Menard’s face. Now that the final word had come, now that all the doubts of the unsettled day, now only half gone, had settled into a fact to be faced, he was himself again, the quiet, resolute soldier. Only the set, almost hard lines about the mouth told of his suffering.

“If we had a friend here,” he was saying, quietly enough, “it may be that Tegakwita–But no, of course not. I had forgotten about Danton–”

“Tegakwita has lost standing in the tribe for allowing Lieutenant Danton to escape. He is very bitter, We can ask nothing from him.”

“No, I suppose not.”

The cool air of these two men, the manner in which they could face the prospect, coupled with her own sense of weakness, weighed hard upon the maid’s heart. She felt that she must cry out, must in some manner give way to her feelings. She rose and hurried into the open air. The broad sunlight was still sifting down through the leaves and lying upon the green earth in bright patches. The robins were singing, and many strange birds, whose calls she did not know, but who piped gently, musically, so in harmony with the soft landscape that their notes seemed a part of it. It was all unreal, this quiet, sunlit world, where the birds were free as the air which bore their songs, while the brave Captain–she could not face the thought.

The birch cup was still on the stone by the door. She lifted out the flowers with their dripping stems, and rearranged them carefully, placing a large yellow daisy in the centre.

An Indian was approaching up the path. He had thrown aside his blanket, and he strode rapidly, clad in close-fitting jacket and leggings of deerskin, with knife and hatchet slung at his waist. He came straight to the hut and entered, brushing by her without a glance. Just as he passed she recognized him. He was Tegakwita. Her fear of these stern warriors had suddenly gone, and she followed him into the doorway to hear his errand. Menard greeted him with a nod; Father Claude, too, was silent.

“The White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has a grateful heart,” said the Indian, in cutting tones. She was glad that she could understand him. She took a flower from the bunch at her breast, and stood motionless in the low doorway, pulling the petals apart, one by one and watching the little group within. The priest and the Captain were sitting on the ground, Menard with his hands clasped easily about his knees. Tegakwita stood erect, with his back to the door. “He feels the love of a brother for those who would make sacrifices for him,” he went on. “It was many years ago that he saved Tegakwita from the perils of the hunt. Tegakwita has not forgotten. When the White Chief became a captive, he had not forgotten. He has lost his brave name as a warrior because he believed in the White Chief. He has lost–” his voice grew tremulous with the emotion that lay underneath the words–“He has lost his sister, whom he sent to be a sister to the white man and his squaw.”

“My brother speaks strangely,” said Menard, looking up at him half suspiciously.

“Yes, it is strange.” His voice was louder, and in his excitement he dropped the indirect form of speech that, in the case of an older warrior, would have concealed his feelings. “It is strange that you should send my sister, who came to you in trust, to release the white brave. It is strange you should rob me of her whom my father placed by my side.”

Menard and Father Claude looked at each other. The Indian watched them narrowly.

“My son is mistaken,” said Father Claude, quietly. “His sister has wandered away. It may be that she has even now returned.”

“No, my Father. The white brave has stolen her.”

Menard got up, and spoke with feeling.

“Tegakwita does not understand. The white brave was foolish. He is a young warrior. He does not know the use of patience. He first escaped against my orders. The word I sent by your sister was a command to be patient. He went alone, my brother. He has gone forever from my camp. It cannot be that she–”

“The Big Buffalo speaks lies. Who came to cut the white brave’s bonds? Who stole the hunting coat, the leggings of Tegakwita, that her lover might go free? Who has dishonoured herself, her brother, the father that–” Words failed him, and he stood facing them with blazing eyes.

Menard glanced at the maid, but she had passed the point where a shock could sway her, and now stood quietly at the door, waiting to hear what more the warrior would say. But he stood motionless. Father Claude touched his arm.

“If this is true, Tegakwita, the Big Buffalo must not be held to blame. He has spoken truly. To talk in these words to the man who has been your brother, is the act of a dog. You have forgotten that the Big Buffalo never speaks lies.”

The Indian gave no heed to his words. He took a step forward, and raised his hand to his knife. Menard smiled contemptuously, and spread out his hands; he had no weapon. But Tegakwita had a second thought, and dropped his hand.

“Tegakwita, too, never speaks lies,” he said. “He will come back before the sun has come again.”

He walked rapidly out, crowding roughly past the maid.

Menajd leaned against the wall. “Poor boy!” he said, “poor boy!”

The maid came slowly in, and sat on the rude bench which leaned against the logs near the door. The strain of the day was drawing out all the strength, the womanhood, that lay behind her buoyant youth. Already the tan was fading from her face, here in the hut and under the protecting elms; and the whiteness of her skin gave her, instead of a worn appearance, the look of an older woman,–firmer, with greater dignity. Her eyes had a deeper, fuller understanding.

“I suppose that there is nothing, M’sieu–nothing that we can do?”

Menard shook his head. “No; nothing.”

“And the Indian,–he says that he will come back?”

“Yes. I don’t know what he means. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

They were silent for a moment. The maid leaned forward. “What was that, M’sieu?”

“Loungers, on the path.”

“No, they are coming here.”

Menard rose, but she stepped to the door. “Let me go, M’sieu. Ah, I see them. It is my little friends.” She went out, and they could hear her laughing with the two children, and trying to coax them toward the door.

“Danton will never get away,” said the Captain, in a low tone to the priest.

“I fear not, M’sieu.”

“He has lost his head, poor boy. I thought him of better stuff. And the girl–Ah, if he had only gone alone! I could forgive his rashness, Father, his disobedience, if only he could go down with a clear name.”

“There is still doubt,” said the priest, cautiously. “We know only what Tegakwita said.”

“I’m afraid,” Menard replied, shaking his head, “I’m afraid it’s true. You said he wore the hunting clothes. Some one freed him. And the girl is gone. I wish–Well, there is no use. I hoped for something better, that is all.”

Just outside the door the maid was talking gaily with the two children, who now and then raised their piping voices. Then it was evident that they were going away, for she was calling after them. She came into the hut, smiling, and carrying a small willow basket full of corn.

“See,” she said, “even now it is something to have made a friend. We shall not go hungry to-day, after all. Will you partake, Father? And M’sieu?”

She paused before the Captain. He had stepped forward, and was staring at her.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“The children? They are wandering along the path.”

“Quick, Mademoiselle! Call them back.”

She hesitated, in surprise; then set the basket on the ground and obeyed. Menard paced the floor until she returned.

“They are outside, M’sieu, too frightened to come near.”

“Give me that birch cup, outside the door.” He was speaking in quick, low tones. “They must not see me. It would frighten them.”

She brought him the cup, and he emptied the flowers on the floor, tearing open the seams, and drying the wet white bark on his sleeve. He snatched a charred coal from the heap of ashes in the centre of the floor, and wrote rapidly in a strange mixture of words and signs, “A piece of thread, Mademoiselle. And look again–see that they have not gone.”

“They are waiting, M’sieu.”

He rolled the bark tightly, and tied it with the thread which she brought from her bundle.

“We must have a present. Father Claude, you have your bale. Find something quickly,–something that will please them. No, wait–Mademoiselle, have you a mirror? They would run fifty leagues for a mirror.”

She nodded, rummaged through her bundle, and brought out a small glass.

“Take this, Mademoiselle. Tell them to give this letter to the Big Throat, at the next village. They will know the way. He must have it before the day is over. No harm can come to them. If anyone would punish them, the Big Throat will protect them. You must make them do it. They cannot fail.”

Her face flushed, and her eyes snapped as she caught his nervous eagerness. Even Father Claude had risen, and was watching him with kindling eyes. She took the roll and the mirror, and ran out the door. In a moment, Menard, pacing the floor, could hear her merry laugh, and the shrill-voiced delight of the children over their new toy. He caught the priest’s hand.

“Father, we shall yet be free. Who could fail with such a lieutenant as that maid. How she laughs. One would think she had never a care.”

At last she came back, and sank, with a nervous, irresponsible little laugh, on the bench. And then, for the moment, they all three laughed together.

In the silence that followed, Father Claude moved toward the door.

“I must go out again, M’sieu. It may be that there is further word.”

“Very well, Father. And open your ears for news of the poor boy.”

The priest bowed, and went out. Menard stood in the door watching him, as he walked boldly along the path. After a little he turned. The maid was looking at him, still flushed and smiling.

“Well, Mademoiselle, we can take hope again.”

“You are so brave, M’sieu.”

He smiled at her impulsiveness, and looked at her, hardly conscious that he was causing her to blush and lower her eyes.

“And so I am brave, Mademoiselle? It may be that Major Provost and Major d’Orvilliers will not feel so.”

“But they must, M’sieu.”

“Do you know what they will say? They will speak with sorrow of Captain Menard, the trusted, in whose hands Governor Denonville placed the most important commission ever given to a captain in New France. They will regret that their old friend was not equal to the test; that he–ah, do not interrupt, Mademoiselle; it is true–that his failure lost a campaign for New France. You heard Father Claude; you know what these Indians plan to do.”

“You must not speak so, M’sieu. It is wicked. He would be a coward who could blame you. It was not your fault that you were captured. When I return I shall go to them and tell them how you fought, and how you faced them like–like a hero. When I return–” She stopped, as if the word were strange.

“Aye, Mademoiselle, and God grant that you may return soon. But your good heart leads you wrong. It was my fault that I did not bring a force strong enough to protect myself,–and you. To fight is not a soldier’s first duty. It is to be discreet; he must know when not to fight as well as when to draw his sword; he must know how many men are needed to defend his cause. No; I was overconfident, and I lost. And there we must leave it. Nothing more can be said.”

He stood moodily over the heap of ashes. When he looked at her again, she had risen.

“The flowers, M’sieu,” she said, “you–you threw them away.”

He glanced down. They lay at his feet. Silently he knelt and gathered them.

“Will you help me, Mademoiselle? We will make another cup. And these two large daisies,–did you see how they rested side by side on the ground when I would have trampled on them? You will take one and I the other; and when this day shall be far in the past, it may be that you will remember it, and how we two were here together, waiting for the stroke that should change life for us.”

He held it out, and she, with lowered eyes, reached to take it from his hand, but suddenly checked the motion and turned to the door.

“Will you take it, Mademoiselle?”

She did not move; and he stood, the soldier, helpless, waiting for a word. He had forgotten everything,–the low, smoke-blackened hut, the responsibility that lay on his shoulders, the danger of the moment,–everything but the slender maid who stood before him, who would not take the flower from his hand. Then he stepped to her side, and, taking away the other flowers from the lace beneath her throat, he placed the single daisy in their stead. Her eyes were nearly closed, and she seemed hardly to know that he was there.

“And it may be,” he whispered softly, “that we, like the flowers, shall be spared.”

She turned slowly away, and sank upon the bench. Menard, with a strange, new lightness in his heart, went out into the sunlight.

The day wore on. The warm sunbeams, that slipped down through the foliage, lengthened and reached farther and farther to the east. The bright spots of light crept across the grass, climbed the side of the hut and the tree-trunks, lingered on the upreaching twigs, and died away in the blue sky. The evening star shot out its white spears, glowing and radiant, long before the light had gone, or the purple and golden afterglow had faded into twilight. Menard’s mind went back to another day, just such a glorious, shining June day as this had been, when he had sat not a hundred yards from this spot, waiting, as now, for the end. He looked at his fingers. They were scarred and knotted; one drunken, frenzied squaw had mangled them with her teeth. He had wondered then how a man could endure such torture as had come to him, and still could live and think, could even struggle back to health. The depression had gone from him now; his mind was more alert than since the night of the capture. Whether it was the bare chance of help from the Big Throat, or the gentle sadness in the face of the maid as she bowed her head to the single daisy on her breast,–something had entered into his nerves and heart, something hopeful and strong, He wondered, as Father Claude came up the path, slowly, laboriously, why the priest should be so saddened. After all, the world was green and bright, and life, even a few hours of it, was sweet.