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.”
The men slunk to their blankets, and soon the camp was still.
The river sang as it rushed down its zigzag channel through the rocks,–a song that seemed a part of the night, and yet was distinct from the creeping, rustling, dropping, all-pervading life and stir of the forest. Every leaf, every twig and root, every lump of sod and rock-held pool of stagnant water, had its own miniature world, where living things were fighting the battle of life. In the far distance, perhaps, an owl hooted; or near at hand a flying squirrel alighted on a bending elm-twig. Deer and moose followed their beaten tracks to the streams that had been theirs before ever Frenchman pierced the forest; beaver dove into their huts above the dams their own sharp teeth had made; moles nosed under the rich soil, and left a winding track behind; frogs croaked and bellowed from some backset of the river,–and all blended, not, perhaps, so much into a sound, as into a sense of movement,–an even murmur in a low key, to which the lighter note of the water was apart and distinct.
To a man trained as Menard had been, this was companionship. He was never alone in the forest, never without his millions of friends, who, though they seldom came into his thoughts, were yet a part of him, of his sense of life and strength. And through all these noises, even to the roar of Niagara itself, he could sleep like a child, when the slightest sound of a moccasined foot on a dry leaf would have aroused him at the instant to full activity. To-night he lay awake for a long time. With every day that he drew nearer the frontier came graver doubts of the feasibility of the plan which had been intrusted to him. The wretched business of La Grange’s treachery and the stocking of the King’s galleys had probably alienated the Onondagas for all time. Their presence on the St. Lawrence pointed to this. He felt safe enough, personally, for the very imprudence of the Governor’s campaign, which had made it known so early to all the Iroquois, was an element in his favour. The Iroquois, unlike many of the roaming western tribes, had their settled villages, with lodges and fields of grain to defend from invasion. One secret of the campaign had been well kept; no one save the Governor’s staff and Menard knew that the blow was to fall on the Senecas alone. And Menard was certain enough in his knowledge of Iroquois character to believe that each tribe, from the Mohawks on the east to the Senecas on the west, would call in its warriors, and concentrate to defend its villages. Therefore there could be no strong force on the St. Lawrence, where the French could so easily cut it off. As for the Long Arrow and his band, eight good fighting men and a stout-hearted priest could attend to them.
No, the danger would begin after the maid was safe at Frontenac, and he and Danton and Father Claude must set out to win the confidence of the Onondagas. The Oneidas and Mohawks must not be slighted; but the Onondagas and Cayugas, being the nearest to the Senecas, and between them and the other nations, would likely prove to be the key to the situation.
The night was black when he awoke. Clouds had spread over the sky, hiding all but a strip in the west where a low line of stars peeped out. This strip was widening rapidly as the night breeze carried the clouds eastward. At a little distance some of the men were whispering together and laughing softly. A hand was feeling his arm, and a voice whispered,–
“Quick, M’sieu; something has happened!”
“Is that you, Colin?”
“Yes. Guerin was on guard with me, and he fell. I thought I heard an arrow, but could not be sure. I looked for him after I heard him fall, but could not find him in the dark.”
Menard sprang to his feet, with his musket, which had lain at his side every night since leaving Montreal.
“Where was Guerin, Colin?”
“Straight back from the river, a few rods. He had spoken but a moment before. It must have told them where to shoot.”
“Call the men, and draw them close in a circle.” Menard felt his way toward the fire, where a few red embers showed dimly, and roused Danton with a light touch and a whispered caution to be silent. Already he could hear the low stir of the engagés as they slipped nearer the fire. He walked slowly toward the river, with one hand stretched out in front, to find the canoe. It was closer than he supposed, and he stumbled over it, knocking one end off its support. The maid awoke with a gasp.
“Mademoiselle, silence!” he whispered, kneeling beside her. “I fear we are attacked. You must come with me.” He had to say it twice before she could fully understand, and just then an arrow sang over them, and struck a tree with a low thut. He suddenly rose and shouted, “Together, boys! They will be on us in a moment. Close in at the bank, and save your powder. Perrot, come here and help me with the canoe.”
There was a burst of yells from the dark in answer to his call, and a few shots flashed. Danton was rallying the men, and calling to them to fall back, where they could take cover among the rocks and trees of the bank.
The maid was silent, but she reached out her hand, and Menard, catching her wrist, helped her to her feet, and fairly carried her down the slope of the bank, laying her behind the tangled roots of a great oak. Already the sky was clearer, and the trees and men were beginning to take dim shape. The river rushed by, a deeper black than sky and woods, with a few ghostly bits of white where the foam of the rapids began.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “Don’t move or speak. I shall not be far.”
She clung to his hand in a dazed manner, but he gently drew his away, and left her crouching on the ground.
The men were calling to one another as they dodged back from tree to tree toward the river, shooting only when a flash from the woods showed the position of an Indian. Some of them were laughing, and as Menard reached the canoe Perrot broke into a jeering song. It was clear that the attacking party was not strong. Probably they had not taken into account the double guard, relying on the death of the sentry to clear the way for a surprise.
“Perrot!” called the Captain. “Why don’t you come here?”
The song stopped. There was a heavy noise as the voyageur came plunging through the bushes, drawing a shower of arrows and musket balls.
“Careful, Perrot, careful.”
“They can’t hit me,” said Perrot, laughing. He stumbled against the Captain, stepped back, and fell over the canoe, rolling and kicking. Menard sprang toward him and jerked him up. He smelled strongly of brandy.
Menard swore under his breath.
“Pick up your musket. Take hold of that canoe,–quick!”
Perrot was frightened by his stern words, and he succeeded in holding up an end of the canoe, while Menard pushed him down the slope to the water’s edge. They rushed back, and in a few trips got down most of the stores. By this time Perrot was sobering somewhat, and with the Captain he took his place in the line. The men were shooting more frequently now, and by their loose talk showed increasing recklessness. Calling to Danton, Menard finally made them understand his order to fall back. Before they reached the bank, Colin dropped, with a ball through the head, and was dragged back by Danton.
They dropped behind logs and trees at the top of the slope. It began to look as if the redmen were to get no closer, in spite of the drunken condition of all but one or two of the men. Though the night was now much brighter, they were in the shadow, and neither the Captain nor Danton observed that the brandy which the transport men had supplied was passing steadily from hand to hand. They could not know that the boy Guerin lay on his back amid the attacking Onondagas, an arrow sticking upright in his breast, one hand lying across his musket, the other clasping a flask.
The maid had not moved. She could be easily seen now in the clearer light, and Menard went to her, feeling the need of giving her some work to occupy her mind during the strain of the fight.
“Mademoiselle,” he whispered.
She looked up. He could see that she was shivering.
“I must ask you to help me. We must get the canoe into the water. They will soon tire of the assault and withdraw; then it will be safe to take to the canoe. They cannot hurt you. We are protected by the bank.”
He helped her to rise, and she bravely threw her weight on the canoe, which Menard could so easily have lifted alone, and stood at the edge of the beach, passing him the bundles, which he, wading out, placed aboard. But suddenly he stopped, with an exclamation, peering into the canoe.
The maid, dreading each moment some new danger, asked in a dry voice, “What is it, M’sieu?”
For reply he seized the bundles, one at a time, and tossed them ashore, hauling the canoe after, and running his hand along the bark.
The maid stepped to his side. There was a gaping hole in the side of the canoe. She drew her breath in quickly, and looked up at him.
“It was Perrot,” he muttered, “that fool Perrot.” He stood looking at it, as if in doubt what to do. Up on the bank the men, Danton and Father Claude among them, were popping away at the rustling bushes. Suddenly he turned and gazed down at the maid’s upturned face. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I do not think there is danger, but whatever happens you must keep close to me, or to Danton and Father Claude. It may be that there will be moments when we cannot stop and explain to you as I am doing now, but you must trust us, and believe that all will come out well. The other men are not themselves to-night–”
He stopped. It was odd that he should so talk to a maid while his men were fighting for their lives; but the Menard who had the safety of this slender girl in his hands was not the Menard of a hundred battles gone by. So he lingered, not knowing why, save that he hoped for some word from her lips of confidence in those who wished to protect her. And, as he waited, she smiled with trembling lips, and said:–
“It will come out well, M’sieu. I–I am not afraid.”
Then Menard went up the bank with a bound, and finding one man already in a stupor, and another struggling for a flask, which Father Claude was trying to take away from him, he laid about him with his hard fists, and shortly had the drunkards as near to their senses as they were destined to be during the short space they had yet to live.