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.”
“Did the Governor have much trouble with the Senecas?”
“Oh, he had to fight for it. He was–My God, Menard, what about the girl? I was so shaken up at meeting you like this that it got away from me. The column had hardly got to the fort on their way up from Montreal before everyone was asking for you. La Grange had a letter from her father saying that she was with you, and he’s been in a bad way. He says that he was to have married her, and that you’ve got away with her. It serves him right, the beast. One night, at La Famine, he was drunk, and he came around to all of us reading that letter at the top of his voice and swearing to kill you the moment he sees you. He’s been talking a good deal about that.”
“She is here, asleep.”
“Thank God.”
“Where is La Grange now?”
“He’s over at Frontenac. He got into trouble before we left La Famine. He’s drinking hard now, you know. He had command of a company that was working on the stockades, and he made such a muss of it that his sergeant had to take hold and handle it to get the work done at all. You can imagine what bad feeling that made in his company. Played the devil with his discipline. Well, he took it like a child. But that night, when he got a little loose on his legs, he hunted up the sergeant and made him fight. The fellow wouldn’t until La Grange came at him with his sword, but then he cracked his head with a musket.”
“Hurt him?”
“Yes. They took him up to Frontenac. He’s in the hospital now, but it’s pretty generally understood that d’Orvilliers won’t let him go out until the Governor gets back from Niagara. He’s well enough already, they say. It’s hard on the sergeant, too; no one blames him.”
Du Peron looked around and saw Teganouan lying near.
“Who’s this Indian?” he asked in a low tone.
“He is with me. A mission Indian.”
“Does he know French? Has he understood us?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. Here is Father Claude de Casson. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Yes, indeed.”
The Lieutenant rose to greet the priest, and then the three sat together.
“You asked me about the fight, didn’t you, Menard? I don’t seem able to hold to a subject very long to-night. We struck out from La Famine on the morning of the twelfth of July. You know the trail that leads south from La Famine? We followed that.”
Menard smiled at the leaping fire.
“Don’t laugh, Menard; that was no worse than what we’ve done from the start. The Governor never thought but what we’d surprise them as much on that road as on another. And after all, we won, though it did look bad for a while. There was a time, at the beginning of the fight,–well, I’m getting ahead of myself again. We were in fairly good order. Callières had the advance with the Montreal troops. He threw out La Durantaye, with Tonty and Du Luth,–the coureurs de bois, you know,–to feel the way. La Durantaye had the mission Indians, from Sault St. Louis and the Montreal Mountain, on his left, and the Ottawas and Mackinac tribes on his right.”
“How did the Ottawas behave?”
“Wretchedly. They ran at the first fire. I’ll come to that. The others weren’t so bad, but there was no holding them. They spread through the forest, away out of reach. Perrot had the command, but he could only follow after and knock one down now and then.”
“The Governor took command of the main force?”
“Yes. And he carried his bale like the worst of us; I’ll say that for him. It was hot, and we all drooped a bit before night. And he made a good fight, too, if you can forgive him that bungling march. When we bivouacked, some of Du Luth’s boys scouted ahead. They got in by sunrise. They’d been to the main village of the Senecas on the hill beyond the marsh,–you know it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And they saw nothing but a few women and a pack of dogs. The Governor was up early,–he’s not used to sleeping out doors in the mosquito country,–sitting on a log at the side of the trail, talking with Granville and Berthier. I wasn’t five yards behind them, trying to scrape the mud off my boots–you know how that mud sticks, Menard. Well, when the scouts came in with their story, the Governor stood up. ‘Take my order to La Durantaye,’ he said, ‘that he is to move on with all caution, that the surprise may be complete. He will push forward, following the trail. You,’ he said, to a few aides who stood by, ‘will see that the command is aroused as silently as possible.’ Well, I didn’t know whether to laugh at the Governor or pity myself and the boys. Any man but the crowd of seigniors that he had about him would have foreseen what was coming. I knew that the devils were waiting for us, probably at one of the ravines where the trail runs through that group of hills just this side of the marsh. You know the place,–every one of us knows it. But what could we say? I’d have given a month’s pay to have been within ear-shot of La Durantaye when he got the order. La Valterie told me about it afterward. ‘What’s this?’ he says, ‘follow the trail? I’ll go to the devil first. There’s a better place for my bones than this pest-ridden country.’ He calls to Du Luth: ‘Hear this, Du Luth. We’re to “push forward, following the trail.”’ I can fairly hear him say it, with his eyes looking right through the young aide. ‘Not I,’ says Du Luth, ‘I’m going around the hills and come into the village over the long oak ridge!’ ‘You can’t do it. I have the Governor’s order.’ And then Du Luth drew himself up, La Valterie says, and looked the aide (who wasn’t used to this kind of a soldier, and wished himself back under the Governor’s petticoats) up and down till the fellow got red as a Lower Town girl. ‘Tell your commanding officer,’ says Du Luth, in his big voice, ‘that the advance will “push forward, following the trail,”–and may God have mercy on our poor souls!’
“Well, Menard, they did it, nine hundred of them. And we came on, a quarter of a league after, with sixteen hundred more. We got into the first defile, and through it, with never a sound. Then I was sure of trouble in the second, but long after the advance had had time to get through, everything was still. There was still the third defile, just before you reach the marsh, and my head was spinning, waiting for the first shot and wondering where we were to catch it and how many of us were to get out alive. And then, all at once it came. You see the Senecas, three hundred of them at least, were in the brush up on the right slope of the third defile; and as many more were in the elder thickets and swamp grass ahead and to the left. They let the whole advance get through,–fooled every man of Du Luth’s scouts,–and then came at them from all sides. We heard the noise–I never heard a worse–and started up on the run; and then there was the strangest mess I ever got into. They had surprised the advance, right enough,–we could see Du Luth and Tonty running about knocking men down and bellowing out orders to hold their force together,–but you see the Senecas never dreamed that a larger force was coming on behind, and we struck them like a whirlwind. Well, for nearly an hour we didn’t know what was going on. Our Indians and the Senecas were so mixed together that we dared not shoot to kill. Our own boys, even the regulars, lost their heads and fell into the tangle. It was all yelling and whooping and banging and running around, with the smoke so thick that you couldn’t find the trail or the hills or the swamp. I was crowded up to my arms in water and mud for the last part of the time. Once the smoke lifted a little, and I saw what I thought to be a mission Indian, not five yards away, in the same fix. I called to him to help me, and he turned out to be a Seneca chief. Our muskets were wet,–at least mine was, and I saw that he dropped his when he started for me,–so we had it out with knives.”
“Did he get at you?”
“Once. A rib stopped it–no harm done. Well, I was tired, but I got out and dodged around through the smoke to find out where our boys were, but they were mixed up worse than ever. I was just in time to save a coureur from killing one of our Indians with his own hatchet. Most of the regulars scattered as soon as they lost sight of their officers. And Berthier,–I found him lying under a log all gone to pieces with fright.
“I didn’t know how it was to come out until at last the firing eased a little, and the smoke thinned out. Then we found that the devils had slipped away, all but a few who had wandered so far into our lines–if you could call them lines–that they couldn’t get out. They carried most of their killed, though we picked up a few on the edge of the marsh. It took all the rest of the day to pull things together and find out how we stood.”
“Heavy loss?”
“No. I don’t know how many, but beyond a hundred or so of cuts and flesh-wounds like mine we seemed to have a full force. We went on in the morning, after a puffed-out speech by the Governor, and before night reached the village. The Senecas had already burned a part of it, but we finished it, and spent close to ten days cutting their corn and destroying the fort on the big hill, a league or more to the east. Then we came back to La Famine, and the Governor took the whole column to Niagara,–to complete the parade, I suppose.”
The story told, they sat by the fire, silent at first, then talking as the mood prompted, until the flames had died and the red embers were fading to gray. Father Claude had stretched out and was sleeping.
“I must look about my camp,” Du Peron said at length. “Good-night.”
“Good-night,” said Menard; and alone he sat there until the last spark had left the scattered heap of charred wood.
The night was cold and clear. The lake stretched out to a misty somewhere, touching the edge of the sky. He rose and walked toward the water. A figure, muffled in a blanket stood on the dark, firm sand close to the breaking ripples. He thought it was one of Du Peron’s sentries, but a doubt drew him nearer. Then the blanket was thrown aside, and he recognized, in the moonlight, the slender figure of the maid. She was gazing out toward the pole-star and the dim clouds that lay motionless beneath it. The splash of the lake and the call of the locusts and tree-toads on the bank behind them were the only sounds. He went slowly forward and stood by her side. She looked up into his eyes, then turned to the lake. She had dropped the blanket to the sand, and he placed it again about her shoulders.
“I am not cold,” she said.
“I am afraid, Mademoiselle. The air is chill.”
They stood for a long time without speaking, while the northern clouds sank slowly beneath the horizon, their tops gleaming white in the moonlight. Once a sharp command rang through the night, and muskets rattled.
“What is that?” she whispered, touching his arm.
“They are changing the guard.”
“You will not need to watch to-night, M’sieu?”
“No; not again. We shall have an escort to Frontenac.” He paused; then added in uncertain voice, “but perhaps–if Mademoiselle–”
She looked up at him. He went on:
“I will watch to-night, and to-morrow night, and once again–then there will be no need: we shall be at Frontenac. Yes, I will watch; I will myself keep guard, that Mademoiselle may sleep safely and deep, as she slept at the Long Lake and in the forests of the Cayugas. And perhaps, while she is sleeping, and the lake lies still, I may dream again as I did then–I will carry on our story to the end, and then–”
He could not say more; he could not look at her. Even at the rustle of her skirt, as she sank to the beach and sat gazing up at him, he did not turn. He was looking dully at the last bright cloud tip, sinking slowly from his sight.
“Frontenac lies there,” he said. “I told them I should bring you there. It has been a longer road than we thought,–it has been a harder road,–and they have said that I broke my trust. Perhaps they were not wrong–I would have broken it–once. But we shall be there in three days. I will keep my promise to the chiefs; and we–we shall not meet again. It will be better. But I shall keep watch, to-night and twice again. That will be all.”
He looked down, and at sight of the mute figure his face softened.
“Forgive me–I should not have spoken. It has been a mad dream–the waking is hard. When I saw you standing here to-night, I knew that I had no right to come–and still I came. I have called myself a soldier”–his voice was weary–“see, this is what is done to soldiers such as I.” One frayed strip of an epaulet yet hung from his shoulder. He tore it off and threw it out into the lake. A little splash, and it was gone. “Good-night, Mademoiselle,–good-night.”
He turned away. The maid leaned forward and called. Her voice would not come. She called again and again. Then he heard, for he stood motionless.
“M’sieu!”
He came back slowly, and stood waiting. She was leaning back on her hands. Her hair had fallen over her face, and she shook it back, gazing up and trying to speak.
“You said–you said, the end–”
He hesitated, as if he dared not meet his thoughts.
“You said–See,” she fumbled hastily at her bosom, “see, I have kept it.”
She was holding something up to him. In the dim light he could not make it out. He took it and held it up. It was the dried stem and the crumbling blossom of a daisy. For a moment he kept it there, then, while he looked, he reached into his pocket and drew out the other.
“Yes,” he said, “yes–” His voice trembled; his hand shook. Her hair had fallen again, and she was trying to fasten it back. He looked at her, almost fiercely, but now her eyes were hidden. “We will go to Frontenac;” he said; “we will go to Frontenac, you and I. But they shall not get you.” He caught the hands that were braiding her hair, and held them in his rough grip. “It is too late. Let them break my sword, if they will, still they shall not get you.”
Her head dropped upon his hands, and for the second time since those days at Onondaga, he felt her tears. For a moment they were motionless; he erect, looking out to the pole-star and over the water that stretched far away to the stone fort, she sobbing and clinging to his scarred hands. Then a desperate look came into his eyes, and he dropped on one knee and caught her shoulders and held her tightly, close against him.
“See,” he said, with the old mad ring in his voice, “see what a soldier I am! See how I keep my trust! But now–but now it is too late for them all. I am still a soldier, and I can fight, Valerie. And God will be good to us. God grant that we are doing right. There is no other way.”
“No,” she whispered after him; “there is no other way.”