The Road to Frontenac

CHAPTER X.

A NIGHT COUNCIL

The night crept by, as had the day, wearily.

The two men sat in the doorway or walked slowly back and forth across the front of the hut, saying little. The Captain was calling to mind every incident of their capture, and of the original trouble between La Grange and the hunting party. He went over the conversation with Major Provost at Quebec word by word, until he felt sure in his authority as the Governor’s representative; although the written orders in the leather bag that hung from his neck were concerned only with his duties in preparing Fort Frontenac for the advancing column,–duties that he had not fulfilled.

A plan was forming in his mind which would make strong demands on the good faith of Major Provost and the Governor. He knew, as every old soldier knows, that governments and rulers are thankless, that even written authority is none too binding, if to make it good should inconvenience those who so easily give it. He knew further that if he should succeed now in staying the Onondagas and Cayugas by pledges which, perchance, it might not please Governor Denonville to observe, the last frail ties that held the Iroquois to the French would be broken, and England would reign from the Hudson to the river of the Illinois. And he sighed, as he had sighed many times before, for the old days under Frontenac, under the only Governor of New France who could hold these slippery redskins to their obligations.

“Father,” he said finally, “I begin to see a way.”

“The Big Throat?”

“He must help, though to tell the truth I fear that he will be of little service. He may come in time to give us a stay; but, chief though he is, he will hardly dare overrule the Long Arrow on a matter so personal as this.”

“What is the Long Arrow’s family–the Beaver?”

“Yes.”

“But, M’sieu, that is the least of the eight families. If it were the Tortoise or the Bear against us, we should have greater cause for fear.”

“True, Father, but to each family belongs its own quarrels, its own revenge. If the Big Throat should interfere too deeply, it would anger the other small families, who might fear the same treatment at some other time. And with Beaver, Snipe, Deer, and Potato united against us,–well, it is a simple enough problem.”

They were walking by the door, and Menard, as he spoke, sat on the stone which he had rolled there in the afternoon. The priest stood before him.

“I hope we may succeed, my son. I have seen this anger before, and it has always ended in the one way.”

“Of course,” the Captain replied, “it does depend on the Big Throat. He must reach here in time.”

“God grant that he may!”

“In that case, Father, I look for a delay. Unless his heart has hardened rapidly, he still thinks of me. Together we will go to him, and ask a hearing in the war council.”

“Oratory will not release us, I fear, M’sieu.”

“We shall not ask to be released, Father. Don’t you understand? It is more than that we shall demand,–it is peace with New France, the safety of the column–”

The priest’s eyes lighted. “Do you think, M’sieu–”

“We can do it. They have not heard all the truth. They do not want a long war which will kill their braves and destroy their homes and their corn. It is this attack on the Senecas that has drawn them out.”

“You will tell them that the Governor fights only the Senecas?”

“More than that. The La Grange affair has stirred them up. It has weakened their faith in the Governor,–it has as good as undone all the work of twenty years past. Our only hope is to reestablish that faith.”

“I hope that we may,” said the priest, slowly. “But they have reached a state now where words alone will hardly suffice. I have tried it, M’sieu. Since we came, I have talked and reasoned with them.”

“Well, Father, I am going to try it. The question is, will the Governor make good what I shall have to promise? It may be that he will. If not,–then my life will not be worth a box of tinder if I stray a league from Quebec without a guard.” He looked down at the daisy on his coat. “But the maid will be safe, Father. She will be safe.”

“I do not believe that they would harm her, even as it is.”

“No, I trust not–I trust not. But we are here, and she is here; and not until I know that her journey is over will my eyes close easily at night.”

“But your plan, M’sieu,–you have not told me.”

“Ah, I thought you understood. Did you know about the capture at Frontenac when it happened? No? It was like this. The Governor sent word, with the orders that came up to the fort in May, that at the first sign of trouble or disturbance with the Indians there, d’Orvilliers should seize a few score of them and send them down the river in chains. It would be an example, he said. I was awaiting orders,–I had just returned from the Huron Country and Michillimackinac,–and d’Orvilliers called me to his rooms and showed me the order. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘who in the devil is meddling at Quebec?’ I did not know; I do not know yet. But there was the order. He turned it over to La Grange, with instructions to wait until some offence should give him an excuse.”

“I know the rest, M’sieu.”

“Yes, yes. You have heard a dozen times,–how La Grange was drinking, and how he lied to a peaceful hunting party, and drugged them, and brained one poor devil with his own sword. And what could we do, Father? Right or wrong, the capture was made. It was too late to release them, for the harm was done. If d’Orvilliers had refused to carry out his orders and send them to Quebec, it would have cost him his commission.”

“And you, M’sieu?”

“I was the only officer on detached service at the Fort. D’Orvilliers could not look me in the face when he ordered me to take them.”

“You will tell them this?”

“This? Yes, and more. I will pledge the honour of New France that La Grange shall suffer. The man who has betrayed the Onondagas must be punished before we can have their good faith. Don’t you understand?”

Father Claude walked away a few steps, and then back, his hands clasped before him.

“Don’t you understand, Father? If a wrong has been done an Iroquois, it is revenge that will appease him. Very well. Captain la Grange has wronged them; let them have their revenge.”

“Is that the right view, M’sieu?”

“Not for us, Father,–for you and me. To us it is simple justice. But justice,–that is not the word with which to reach an Indian.”

“But it may be that Captain la Grange is in favour at Quebec. What then?”

“You do not seem to understand me yet, Father.” Menard spoke slowly and calmly. “This is not my quarrel. I can take what my life brings, and thank your God, the while, that I have life at all. But if by one foolish act the Iroquois are to be lost to France, while I have the word on my tongue that will set all right, am I,–well, would you have me such a soldier?”

The priest was looking through the leaves at the firelight. For once he seemed to have nothing to offer.

“It will not be easy, Father; but when was a soldier’s work easy? First I must make these Indians believe me,–and you know how hard that will be. Then I must convince Governor Denonville that this is his only course; and that will be still harder. Or, if they will not release me, you will be my messenger, Father, and take the word. I will stay here until La Grange has got his dues.”

“Let us suppose,” said the priest,–“let us suppose that you did not do this, that you did not take this course against Captain la Grange which will leave him a marked man to the Iroquois, even if the Governor should do nothing.”

“Then,” said Menard, “the rear-guard at La Famine will be butchered, and the army of New France will be cut to pieces. That is all.”

“You are sure of this?”

“It points that way, Father.”

“Then let us take another case. Suppose that you succeed at the council, that you are released. Then if the Governor should disclaim responsibility, should–”

“Then, Father, I will go to La Grange and make him fight me. I mean to pledge my word to these chiefs. You know what that means.”

“Yes,” replied the priest, “yes.” He seemed puzzled and unsettled by some thought that held his mind. He walked slowly about, looking at the ground. Menard, too, was restless. He rose from the stone and tossed away the pebbles that had supported the cup, one at a time.

“They are singing again,” he said, listening to the droning chant that came indistinctly through the dark. “One would think they would long ago have been too drunk to stand. How some of these recruits the King sends over to us would envy them their stomachs.”

The priest made no reply. He did not understand the impulse that led the Captain to speak irrelevantly at such a moment.

“I suppose the doctors are dancing now,” Menard continued. “It may be that they will come here. If they do, we shall have a night of it.”

“We will hope not, M’sieu.”

“If they should, Father,–well, it is hard to know just what to do.”

“You were thinking–?”

“Oh, I was wondering. If they come here, and let their wild talk run away with them, it might be well to fight them off until morning. Maybe we could do it.”

“Yes, it might seem best.”

“But if–if the Big Throat should not come, or should have changed, then it would have been better that I had submitted.”

“You are thinking of me, my son. You must not. I will not leave you to go without a struggle. I can fight, if needs be, as well as you. I will do my part.”

“It is not that, Father. But if we fight, and the Big Throat does not come,–there is the maid. They would not spare her then.”

The priest looked at the Captain, and in the dim, uncertain light he saw something of the thought that lay behind those wearied eyes.

“True,” he said; “true.”

Menard walked up and down, a half-dozen steps forward, a half-dozen back, without a glance at the priest, who watched him closely. Suddenly he turned, and the words that were in his mind slipped unguarded from his tongue, low and stern:–

“If they come, Father,–if they harm her,–God! if they even wake her, I will kill them.”

Father Claude looked at him, but said nothing. They walked together up and down; then, as if weary, they sat again by the door.

“There are some things which I could not talk over with you,” said the priest, finally. “It was best that I should not. And now I hardly know what is the right thing for me to do, or to say.”

“What troubles you?”

“When you are cooler, it will come to you. For to-night,–until our last moment of choice,–I must ask one favour, M’sieu. You will not decide on this course until it comes to the end. You will think of other ways; you will–”

“What else have I been doing, Father? There is no other way.”

“But you will not decide yet?”

“No. We need not, to-night.”

The priest seemed relieved.

“M’sieu,” came in a low voice from the darkness within the hut, “may I not sit with you?”

“You are awake, Mademoiselle? You have not been sleeping?”

“No, I could not. I–I have not heard you, M’sieu,–I have not listened. But I wanted to very much. I have only my thoughts, and they are not the best of company to-night.”

“Come.” Menard rose and got one of the priest’s blankets, folding it and laying it on the ground against the wall. “I fear that we may be no better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the service of Mademoiselle.”

She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap. Menard was half in the shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on her face. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the night had brought,–fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight; but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had not forgotten to catch up the masses of hair that were struggling to be free; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that the hardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indian shelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat without talking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame that now and then reached above the huts.

“How strange their song is, M’sieu.”

“Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would see that as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing, another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting, and do not recover for hours.”

“I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas–there were but a few of them–had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amusement.”

“They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when there is no hunt to occupy them.”

Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away, leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about with bowed head.

“The Father is sad, M’sieu.”

“Yes. But it is not for himself.”

“Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?”

“I think he will come.”

The maid looked down at her clasped hands. Menard watched her,–the firelight was dancing on her face and hair,–and again the danger seemed to slip away, the chant and the fire to be a part of some mad dream that had carried him in a second from Quebec to this deep-shadowed spot, and had set this maid before him.

“You are wearing the daisy, Mademoiselle.”

She looked up, half-startled at the change in his voice. Then her eyes dropped again.

“See,” he continued, “so am I. Is it not strange that we should be here, you and I. And yet, when I first saw you, I thought–”

“You thought, M’sieu?”

Menard laughed gently. “I could not tell you, without telling you what I think now, and that would–be–”

He spoke half playfully, and waited; but she did not reply.

“I do not know what it is that has come to me. It is not like me. Or it may be that the soldier, all these years, has not been me. Would it not be strange if I were but now to find myself,–or if you were to find me, Mademoiselle? If it is true, if this is what I have waited so long to find, it would be many years before I could repay you for bringing it to me,–it would be a long lifetime.”

Again he waited, and still she was silent. Then he talked on, as madly now as on the night of their capture, when he had fought, shouting, musket and knife in hand, at the water’s edge. But this was another madness.

“It is such a simple thing. Until you came out here under the trees my mind was racked with the troubles about us. But now you are here, and I do not care,–no, not if this were to be my last night, if to-morrow they should–” She made a nervous gesture, but he went on.

“You see it is you, Mademoiselle, who come into my life, and then all the rest goes out.”

“Don’t,” she said brokenly. “Don’t.”

Father Claude came slowly toward them.

“My child,” he said, “if you are not too wearied, I wish to talk with you.”

She rose with an air of relief and joined him. Menard watched them, puzzled. He could hear the priest speaking in low, even tones; and then the maid’s voice, deep with emotion. Finally they came back, and she went hurriedly into the hut without a glance at the soldier, who had risen and stood by the door.

“Come, M’sieu, let us walk.”

Menard looked at him in surprise, but walked with him.

“It is about the speech to the council–and Captain la Grange. It may be that you are right, M’sieu.”

“Right? I do not understand.”

“It was but a moment ago that we talked of it.”

“Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?”

“You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong. If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully. There is none too much time.”

“Yes,” said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest’s arm. “I did not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool I am!”

“No, no, M’sieu.”

“You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not come to me. It will pain her.”

“Yes,” said Father Claude, slowly, “it will pain her. But I have been thinking. I fear that you are right. It has passed beyond the simple matter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of. You have said that it was Captain la Grange’s treachery that first angered the Onondagas. We must lay this before them. If his punishment will satisfy them, will save the rear-guard, why then, my son, it is our duty.”

They paced back and forth in silence. Menard’s heavy breathing and his quick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the struggle that was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said:–

“I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself to this act if–if she–”

“No, M’sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And she has begged me to ask you not to speak with her. She has a brave heart, but she cannot see you now.”

“She asked you,–” said the Captain, slowly. “She asked you–I cannot think. I do not know what to say.”

The priest quietly walked back to the stone by the door, and left the soldier to fight out the battle alone. It was half an hour before he came back and stood before Father Claude.

“Well, M’sieu?”

Menard spoke shortly, “Yes, Father, you are right.”

That was all, but it told the priest that the matter had been finally settled. He had seen the look in the Captain’s eyes when the truth had come to him; and he knew now what he had not dreamed before, that the soldier’s heart had gone out to this maid, and now he must set his hand against one of her own blood. The Father knew that he would do it, would fight La Grange to the end. A word was trembling on his tongue, but as he looked at the seamed face before him, he could not bring himself to add a deeper sorrow to that already stamped there.

“You must help me with the speech, Father. My wits are not at their best, I fear.”

“Willingly, M’sieu. And the presents,–we must think of that.”

“True. We have not the wampum collars. It must be something of great value that will take their place. You know how much tradition means to these people. Of course I have nothing. But you–you have your bale. And Mademoiselle–together you should find something.”

“I fear that I have little. My blankets and my altar they would not value. One moment–” He stepped to the door, and spoke softly, “Mademoiselle.”

“Yes, Father.” She stood in the doorway, wearily. It was plain that she had been weeping, but she was not ashamed.

“We shall need your help, Mademoiselle. Anything in your bale that would please the chiefs must be used.”

She was puzzled.

“It is the custom,” continued the priest, “at every council. To the Indians a promise is not given, a statement is not true, a treaty is not binding, unless there is a present for each clause. We have much at stake, and we must give what we have.”

“Certainly, Father.”

She stepped back into the darkness, and they could hear her dragging the bundle. Menard sprang to help.

“Mademoiselle, where are you?”

“Here, M’sieu.”

He walked toward the sound with his hands spread before him. One hand rested on her shoulder, where she stooped over the bale. She did not shrink from his touch. For a moment he stood, struggling with a mad impulse to take her slender figure in his arms, to hold her where a thousand Indians could not harm her save by taking his own strong life; to tell her what made this moment more to him than all the stern years of the past. It may be that she understood, for she was motionless, almost breathless. But in a moment he was himself.