Colin and Guerin were dead, and one of the transport men lay in a drunken sleep, so that including Menard, Danton, and Father Claude there were six men in the little half circle that clung to the edge of the bank, shooting into the brush wherever a twig stirred or a musket flashed. “There are not many of them,” said Menard to Danton, as they lay on their sides reloading. He listened to the whoops and barks in an interval between shots. “Not a score, all told.”
“Will they come closer?”
“No. You won’t catch an Iroquois risking his neck in an assault. They’ll try to pick us off; but if we continue as strong as we are now, they are likely to draw off and try some other devilment, or wait for a better chance.”
Danton crept back to his log for another shot. Now that the sky was nearly free of clouds, and the river was sparkling in the starlight, the Frenchmen could not raise their heads to shoot without exposing a dim silhouette to the aim of an Indian musket. Father Claude, who was loading and firing a long arquebuse à croc, had risen above this difficulty by heaping a pile of stones. Kneeling on the slope, a pace below the others, and resting the crutch of his piece in a hollow close to the stones, he could shoot through a crevice with little chance of harm, beyond a bruised shoulder.
The maid came timidly up the bank, and touched Menard’s arm.
“What is it, Mademoiselle? You must not come here. It is not safe.”
“I want to speak to you, M’sieu. If I could have your knife–for one moment–”
“What do you want of a knife, child? It is best that you–” There was a fusillade from the brush, and his voice was lost in the uproar. “You must wait below, on the beach. They cannot get to you.”
“It is the canoe, M’sieu. The cloth about the bales is stout,–I can sew it over the hole.”
Menard looked at her as she crouched by his side; her hair fallen about her face and shoulders; her hands, grimy with the clay of the bank, clinging to a wandering root. She was still trembling with excitement, but her eyes were bright and eager. Without a word he drew his knife from its sheath, and held it out. She took it, and was down the slope with a light spring, while the Captain poked the muzzle of his musket through the leaves. As he drew it back, after firing, he caught a glimpse of Danton’s face, turned toward him with a curious expression. The boy laughed nervously, and wiped the sweat from his blackened forehead. “They don’t give us much rest, Captain, do they?” Menard’s reply was jerked out with the strokes of his ramrod: “They will–before long–and we can–take to the canoe. We’re letting them have all they want.” He peered through the leaves, and fired quickly. A long shriek came from the darkness. Menard laughed. “There’s one more gone, Danton.”
The fight went on slowly, wretchedly, shot for shot, Danton himself dragging up a bale of ammunition and serving it to the men. The maid, unaided, had overturned the canoe where it lay, and with quickened breath was pressing her needle through the tough bark. Danton lost the flint from his musket, and crept down the bank to set a new one. Suddenly he exclaimed, “There goes Perrot!”
The old voyageur had, in a fit of recklessness, raised his head for a long look about the woods. Now he was rolling slowly down the slope toward the canoe and the maid, clutching weakly at roots and bushes as he passed. There was a dark spot on his forehead. Menard sprang after, and felt of his wrists; the pulse was fluttering out. He looked up, to see the maid dipping up water with her hollowed hands, and waved her back.
“It is no use, Mademoiselle. Is the canoe ready? We may need it soon.”
She stood motionless, slowly shaking her head, and letting the water spill from her hands a drop at a time.
“Go back there. Do what you can with it.” He hurried up the bank and fell into his place.
“Do you see what they are doing?” asked Danton.
“Playing the devil. Anything else?”
The lieutenant pointed to an arrow that was sticking in a tree beside him, slanting downward. “They are climbing trees. Listen. You can hear them talking, and calling down. I’ve fired, but I don’t get them.”
Menard listened closely, and shot for the sound, but with no result.
“We’ve got to stop this, Danton. I don’t understand it. It isn’t like the Iroquois to keep at it after a repulse. Tell Father Claude; he is shooting too low.” Menard glanced along the line at his men. The drunken transport man lay silent at his post; beyond him were his mate and one of the Montreal men, both of them reckless and frightened by turns, shooting aimlessly into the dark. The arrows were rattling down about them now. One grazed Father Claude’s back as he stooped to take aim, and straightened him up with a jerk. A moment later a bullet sang close past Menard’s head. He looked for the maid; she was sitting by the canoe, sewing, giving no heed to the arrows.
The Montreal man groaned softly, and flattened out, with an arrow slanting into the small of his back; which so unmanned the only other conscious engagé that he sank by him, sobbing, and trying to pull out the arrow with his hands. Menard sprang up.
“My God, Danton! Father Claude! This is massacre. Run for the canoe. My turn, eh?”
“What is it?” asked Danton. “Did they get you?”
For reply, Menard tore an arrow from the flesh of his forearm and dashed down the bank, musket in hand. The maid was tugging at the canoe, struggling to move it toward the water. She did not look up to see the yellow, crimson, and green painted figures rise from the reeds that fringed the water but a few yards away; she did not hear the rush of moccasined feet on the gravel. Before she could turn, she was seized and thrown to the ground, surrounded by the Indians, who were facing about hastily to meet Menard. The Captain came among them with a whirl of his musket that sent one warrior to the ground and dropped another, half stunned, across the canoe. Danton was at his heels, and Father Claude, fighting like demons with muskets and knives.
“Quick, Mademoiselle!” Menard lifted her as he spoke, and swung her behind him; and then the three were facing the group of howling, jumping figures, which was increased rapidly by those who had followed the Frenchmen down the bank. “Come back here, Father. Protect the maid! They dare not attack you, if you drop your musket! Loose your hold, Mademoiselle.” He caught roughly at the slender arms that held about his waist, parrying a knife stroke with his other hand. “They will kill you if you cling to me. Now, Danton! Never mind your arm. I have one in the hand. Fight for the maid and France!” Menard was shouting for sheer lust and frenzy of battle, “What is the matter with the devils? Why don’t they shoot? God, Danton, they’re coming at us with clubs!” He called out in the Iroquois tongue: “Come at us, cowards! Make an end of it! Where are your bows? your muskets? Where is the valour of the Onondagas–of my brothers?”
The last words brought forth a chorus of jeers and yells. The two officers stood side by side at the water’s edge. Behind them, knee-deep in the water, was Father Claude, holding the maid in his arms. The Indians seemed to draw together, still with that evident effort to take their game alive, for two tall chiefs were rushing about, cautioning the warriors. Then, of a sudden, the whole body came forward with a rush, and Menard, Danton, Father Claude, and the maid went down; the three men fighting and splashing until they lay, bound with thongs, on the beach.
Menard turned his head and saw that Danton lay close to him.
“Mademoiselle?” he said. “What have they done with her?”
“She is here.” The reply was in Father Claude’s voice. It came from the farther side of Danton.
“Is she hurt?”
“No. But they have bound her and me.”
“Bound you!” The Captain tried to sit up, but could not. “They would not do that, Father. It is a mistake.”
A warrior, carrying a musket under his arm, walked slowly around the prisoners, making signs to them to be silent. The others had withdrawn to the shadow of the bank; the sound of their voices came indistinctly across the strip of shore. Indifferent to the pain in his arm, Menard struggled at his thongs, and called to them in Iroquois: “Who of my brothers has bound the holy Father? What new fear strikes the breasts of the sons of the night-wind that they must subdue with force the gentle spirit of their Father, who has given his years for his children? Is it not enough that you have broken the faith with your brother, the child of your own village, the son of your bravest chief? Need you other prey than myself?”
The guard stood over Menard, and lifted his musket. Menard laughed.
“Strike me, brave warrior. Show that your heart is still as fond as on the day I carried your torn body on my shoulder to the safety of your lodge. Ah, you remember? You have not forgotten the Big Buffalo? Then, why do you hesitate? The man who has courage to seize a Father of the Church, surely can strike his brother. This is not the brave Tegakwita I have known.”
Father Claude broke in on Menard, whose voice was savage in its defiance.
“Have patience, M’sieu. I will speak.” He lifted his voice. “Teganouan! Father Claude awaits you.” There was no reply from the knot of warriors at the bank, and the priest called again. Finally a chief came across and looked stolidly at the prisoners.
“My Father called?” he said.
“Your Father is grieved, Long Arrow, that you would bind him like a soldier taken in war.” The priest’s voice was gentle. “Is this the custom of the Onondagas? It was not so when I served you with Father de Lamberville.”
“My Father fought against his children.”
“You would have slain me, Long Arrow, had I not.”
The Indian walked slowly back to his braves, and for some moments there was a consultation. Then the other chief came to them, and, without a word, himself cut the thongs that bound the priest’s wrists and ankles. There was no look of recognition in his eyes as he passed Menard, though they had been together on many a long hunt. He was the Beaver.
As the Captain lay on his back, looking first at the kneeling Indian, then at the sky overhead, he was thinking of the Long Arrow, again with a half-memory of some other occasion when they had met. Then, slowly, it came to him. It was at the last council to decide on his release from captivity, five years before. The Long Arrow had come from a distant village to urge the death of the prisoner. He had argued eloquently that to release Menard would be to send forth an ungrateful son who would one day strike at the hand that had befriended him.
Father Claude was on his feet, chafing his wrists and talking with the Beaver. The Long Arrow joined them, and for a few moments the chiefs reasoned together in low, dignified tones. Then, at a word from the Beaver, and a grunt of disgust from the Long Arrow, Father Claude, with quick fingers, set the maid free, and took her head upon his knee.
“Have they hurt her, Father?” asked Menard, in French.
“No, M’sieu, I think not. It is the excitement. The child sadly needs rest.”
“Will they release you? It is not far to Frontenac. It may be that you can reach there with Mademoiselle.”
“No, my son.” The priest paused to dip up some water, and to stroke the maid’s forehead and wrists. “They have some design which has not been made clear to me. They have promised not to bind me or to injure what belongs to me among the supplies. But the Beaver threatens to kill us if we try to escape, Mademoiselle and I.”
“Why do they hold you?”
“To let no word go out concerning your capture. I fear, M’sieu–”
“Well?”
The priest lowered his eyes to the maid, who still lay fainting, and said no more. A long hour went by, with only a commonplace word now and then between the prisoners. The maid revived, and sat against the canoe, gazing over the water that swept softly by. Danton lay silent, saying nothing. Once a groan slipped past the Captain’s lips at a twitch of his wounded arm, and Father Claude, immediately cheered by the prospect of a moment’s occupation, cleaned the wound with cool water, and bandaged it with a strip from his robe.
Preparations were making for a start. A half-dozen braves set out, running down the beach; and shortly returned by way of the river with two canoes. The others had opened the bales of supplies (excepting Father Claude’s bundle, which he kept by him), and divided the food and ammunition among themselves. The two chiefs came to the prisoners, and seated themselves on the gravel. The Long Arrow began talking.
“My brother, the Big Buffalo, is surprised that he should be taken a prisoner to the villages of the Onondagas. He thinks of the days when he shared with us our hunts, our lodges, our food, our trophies; when he lived a free life with his brothers, and parted from them with sadness in his voice. He had a grateful heart for the Onondagas then. When he left our lodges he placed his hand upon the hearts of our chiefs, he swore by his strange gods to keep the pledge of friendship to his brothers of the forest. Moons have come and gone many times since he left our villages. The snow has fallen for five seasons between him and us, to chill his heart against those who have befriended him. Twice has he been in battle when we might have taken him a prisoner, but the hearts of our braves were warm toward him, and they could not lift their arms. When there have been those who have urged that the hatchet be taken up against him, many others have come forward to say, ‘No; he will yet prove our friend and our brother.’”
Menard lay without moving, looking up at the stars. Danton, by his side, and the maid, sitting beyond, were watching him anxiously. Father Claude stood erect, with folded arms.
“And now,” continued the chief, “now that Onontio, the greatest of war chiefs, thinks that he is strong, and can with a blow destroy our villages and drive us from the lands our gods and your gods have said to be ours by right, as it was our fathers’,–now there is no longer need for the friendship of the Onondagas, whose whole nation is fewer than the fighting braves of the great Onontio. The war-song is sung in every white village. The great canoes take food and powder up our river, for those who would destroy us.”
Menard was still looking upward. “My brother,” he said, speaking slowly, “was once a young brave. When he was called before his great chief, and commanded to go out and fight to save his village and his brothers and sisters, did he say to his chief: ‘No, my father, I will no longer obey your commands. I will no longer strive to become a famous warrior of your nation. I will go away into the deep forest,–alone, without a lodge, without a nation, to be despised alike by my brothers and my foes?’ Or did he go as he was bid, obeying, like a brave warrior, the commands of those who have a right to command? Does not the Long Arrow know that Onontio is the greatest of chiefs, second only to the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, the father of red men and white men? If Onontio’s red sons are disobedient, and he commands me to chastise them, shall I say to my father, ‘I cannot obey your will, I will become an outcast, without a village or a nation?’ The Long Arrow is a wise man. He knows that the duty of all is to obey the father at Quebec.”
“The Big Buffalo speaks with wisdom. But it may be he forgets that our braves have passed him by in the battles of every season since he left our villages. He forgets that he met a band of peaceful hunters from our nation, who went into his great stone house because they believed that his white brothers, if not himself, would keep the word of friendship. He forgets that they were made to drink of the white man’s fire water, and were chained together to become slaves of the great kind Chief-Across-the-Water, who loves his children, and would make them mighty in his land. Is this the father he would have us obey? Truly, he speaks with an idle tongue.”
Menard lay silent. His part in La Grange’s treachery, and in carrying out later the Governor’s orders, would be hard to explain. To lay the blame on La Grange would not help his case, at least until he could consult with Father Claude, and be prepared to speak deliberately.
“My brother does not reply?”
“He will ask a question,” replied Menard. “What is the will of the chiefs to do with the sons of Onontio?”
“The Big Buffalo has seen the punishment given by the Onondagas to those who have broken their faith.”
“I understand. And of course we shall be taken to your villages before this death shall come?”
The Long Arrow bowed.
“Very well,” said Menard, in his slow voice. “As the Long Arrow, brave as he is, is but a messenger, obeying the will of the nation, I will withhold my word until I shall be brought before your chiefs in council. I shall have much to say to them; it need be said only once. I shall be pleased to tell my truths to the Big Throat, whose eyes can see beyond the limits of his lodge; who knows that the hand of Onontio is a firm and strong hand. He shall know from my lips how kind Onontio wishes to be to his ungrateful children–” He paused. The Indians must not know yet that the Governor’s campaign was to be directed only against the Senecas. The mention of the Big Throat would, he knew, be a shaft tipped with jealousy in the breast of the Long Arrow. The Big Throat, Otreouati, was the widest famed orator and chief of the Onondagas; and it was he who had adopted Menard as his son. Above all, the Long Arrow would not dare to do away with so important a prisoner before he could be brought before the council.
The maid was leaning forward, following their words intently. “Oh, M’sieu,” she said, “I cannot understand it all. What will they do with you?”
Menard hesitated, and replied in French without turning his head: “They will take us to their villages below Lake Ontario. They will not harm you, under Father Claude’s protection. And then it is likely that we may be rescued before they can get off the river.”
“But yourself, M’sieu? They are angry with you. What will they do?”
“Lieutenant Danton and I must look out for ourselves. I shall hope that we may find a way out.”
The Long Arrow was looking closely at them, evidently resenting a woman’s voice in the talk. At the silence, he spoke in the same low voice, but Menard and Father Claude read the emotion underneath.
“It may be that the Big Buffalo has never had a son to brighten his days as his life reaches the downward years. It may be that he has not watched the papoose become a fleet youth, and the youth a tireless hunter. He may not have waited for the day when the young hunter should take his seat at the council and speak with those who will hear none but wise men. I had such a son. He went on the hunt with a band that never returned to the village.” His voice rose above the pitch customary to a chief. It was almost cold in its intensity. “I found his body, my brother, the body of my son, at this place, killed by the white men, who talked to us of the love of their gods and their Chief-Across-the-Water. Here it was I found him, who died before he would become the slave of a white man; and here I have captured the man who killed him. It is well that we have not killed my brother to-night. It is better that we should take him alive before the council of the Onondagas, who once were proud in their hearts that he was of their own nation.”
The maid’s eyes, shining with tears, were fixed on the Indian’s face. She had caught up with her hand the flying masses of her hair and braided them hastily; but still there were locks astray, touched by the light of the starlit sky. Menard turned his head, and watched her during the long silence. Danton was watching her too. He had not understood the chief’s story, but it was clear from her face that she had caught it all. It was Father Claude who finally spoke. His voice was gentle, but it had the air of authority which his long experience had taught him was necessary in dealing with the Indians.
“The Big Buffalo has said wisely. He will speak only to the great chiefs of the nation, who will understand what may be beyond the minds of others. The heart of the Long Arrow is sad, his spirit cast down, and he does not see now what to-morrow he may,–that the hand of the Big Buffalo is not stained with the blood of his son. We will go to your village, and tell your chiefs many things they cannot yet know. For the Big Buffalo and his young brother, I shall ask only the justice which the Onondagas know best how to give. For myself and my sister, I am not afraid. We will follow your course, to come back when the chiefs shall order it.”
The two Indians exchanged a few signs, rose, and went to the scattered group of braves, who were feasting on the white men’s stores. In a moment these had thrown the bundles together, and were getting the canoes into the water. Two warriors cut Danton’s thongs and raised him to his feet. He rubbed his wrists, where the thongs had broken the skin, and stepped about to get the stiffness from his ankles. Then he bent down to set Menard loose, but was thrown roughly back.
“What’s this? What’s the matter? Do you understand this, Menard?”
“I think so,” replied the Captain, quietly.
“What is it?”
“A little compliment to me, that is all.”
Danton stood looking at him in surprise, until he was hustled to the nearest canoe and ordered to take a paddle. He looked back and saw four warriors lift Menard, still bound hand and foot, and carry him to the other canoe, laying him in the bottom beneath the bracing-strips. Father Claude, too, was given a paddle. Then they glided away over the still water, into a mysterious channel that wound from one shadow-bound stretch to another, past islands that developed faintly from the blackness ahead and faded into the blackness behind. The lean arms of the Indians swung with a tireless rhythm, and their paddles slipped to and fro in the water with never a sound, save now and then a low splash.