CHAPTER VIII.
THE MAID MAKES NEW FRIENDS
The prisoners were allowed some freedom in the Onondaga village. They were not bound, and they could wander about within call of the low hut which had been assigned to them. This laxity misled Danton into supposing that escape was practicable.
“See,” he said to Menard, “no one is watching. Once the dark has come we can slip away, all of us.”
Menard shook his head.
“Do you see the two warriors sitting by the hut yonder,–and the group playing platter among the trees behind us? Did you suppose they were idling?”
“They seem to sleep often.”
“You could not do it. We shall hope to get away safely; but it will not be like that.”
Danton was not convinced. He said nothing further, but late on that first night he made the attempt alone. The others were asleep, and suspected nothing until the morning. Then Father Claude, who came and went freely among the Indians, brought word that he had been caught a league to the north. The Indians bound him, and tied him to stakes in a strongly guarded hut. This much the priest learned from Tegakwita, the warrior who had guarded them on the night of their capture. After Menard’s appeal to his gratitude he had shown a willingness to be friendly, and, though he dared do little openly, he had given the captives many a comfort on the hard journey southward.
Later in the morning Menard and Mademoiselle St. Denis were sitting at the door of their hut. The irregular street was quiet, excepting for here and there a group of naked children playing, or a squaw passing with a load of firewood on her back. An Indian girl came in from the woods toward them. She was of light, strong figure, with a full face and long hair, which was held back from her face by bright ribbons. Her dress showed more than one sign of Mission life. She was cleaner than most of the Indians, and was not unattractive. She came to them without hesitation.
“I am Tegakwita’s sister. My name is Mary; the Fathers at the Mission gave it to me.”
Menard hardly gave her a glance, but Mademoiselle was interested.
“That is not your Indian name?” she asked.
“Yes,–Mary.”
“Did you never have another?”
“My other name is forgotten.”
“These Mission girls like to ape our ways,” said Menard, in French.
The girl looked curiously at them, then she untied a fold of her skirt, and showed a heap of strawberries. “For the white man’s squaw,” she said.
Mademoiselle blushed and laughed. “Thank you,” she replied, holding out her hands. The girl gave her the berries, and turned away. Menard looked up as a thought came to him.
“Wait, Mary. Do you know where the young white chief is?”
“Yes. He tried to run away. He cannot run away from our warriors.”
“Are you afraid to go to him?”
“My brother, Tegakwita, is guarding him. I am not afraid.”
Menard went to a young birch tree that stood near the hut, peeled off a strip of bark, and wrote on it:–
“If you try to escape again you will endanger my plans. Keep your patience, and I can save you.”
“Will you take him some berries, and give him this charm with them?”
She took the note, rolled it up with a nod, and went away. Menard saw the question in Mademoiselle’s eyes, and said: “It was a warning to be cool. Our hope is in getting the good-will of the chiefs.”
“Will they–will they hurt him, M’sieu?”
“I hope not. At least we are still alive and safe; and years ago, Mademoiselle, I learned how much that means.”
The maid looked into the trees without replying. Her face had lost much of its fulness, and only the heavy tan concealed the worn outlines. But her eyes were still bright, and her spirit, now that the first shock had passed, was firm.
Father Claude returned, after a time, with a heavy face. He drew Menard into the hut, and told him what he had gathered: that the Long Arrow and his followers were planning a final vengeance against Captain Menard. All the braves knew of it; everywhere they were talking of it, and preparing for the feasting and dancing.
“They will wait until after the fighting, won’t they?”
“No, M’sieu. It is planned to begin soon, within a day or two.”
“Have you inquired for the Big Throat?”
“He is five leagues away, at the next village. We can hardly hope for help from him, I fear. All the tribes are preparing to join in fighting our troops.”
Menard paused to think.
“It looks bad, Father.” He walked up and down the hut. “The Governor’s column must have followed up the river within a few days of us. Then much time was lost in getting us down here.” He turned almost fiercely to the priest. “Why, the campaign may have opened already. Word may come to-morrow from the Senecas calling out the Onondagas and Cayugas. Do you know what that means? It means that I have failed,–for the first time in my life, Father,–miserably failed. There must be some way out. If I could only get word to the Big Throat. I’m certain I could talk him over. I have done it before.”
Father Claude had never before seen despair in Menard’s eyes.
“You speak well, M’sieu. There must be some way. God is with us.”
The Captain was again pacing the beaten floor. Finally he came to the priest, and took his arm. “I don’t know what it is that gives me courage, Father, but at my age a man isn’t ready to give up. They may kill me, if they like, but not before I’ve carried out my orders. The Onondagas must not join the Senecas.”
“How”–began the priest.
Menard shook his head. “I don’t know yet,–but we can do it.” He went out of doors, as if the sunlight could help him, and during the rest of the day and evening he roamed about or lay motionless under the trees. The maid watched him until dark, but kept silent; for Father Claude had told her, and she, too, believed that he would find a way.
Late in the evening Father Claude began to feel disturbed. Menard was still somewhere off among the trees. He had come in for his handful of grain, at the supper hour, but with hardly a word. The Father had never succeeded, save on that one occasion when Danton was the subject, in carrying on a long conversation with the maid; and now after a few sorry attempts he went out of doors. He thought of going to the Captain, to cheer his soul and prepare his mind for whatever fate awaited him, but his better judgment held him back.
The village had no surface excitement to suggest coming butchery and war. The children were either asleep or playing in the open. Warriors walked slowly about, wrapped closely in blankets, though the night was warm. The gnats and mosquitoes were humming lazily, the trees barely stirring, and the voices of gossiping squaws or merry youths blended into a low drone. There was the smell in the air of wood and leaves burning, from a hundred smouldering fires. Father Claude stood for a long time gazing at the row of huts, and wondering that such an air of peace and happiness could hover over a den of brute savages, who were even at the moment planning to torture to his death one of the bravest sons of New France.
While he meditated, he was half conscious of voices near at hand. He gave it no attention until his quick ear caught a French word. He started, and hurried to the hut, pausing in the door. By the dim light of the fire, that burned each night in the centre of the floor, he could see Mademoiselle standing against the wall, with hands clasped and lips parted. Nearer, with his back to the door, stood an Indian.
The maid saw the Father, but did not speak. He came forward into the hut, and gently touched the Indian’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked in Iroquois.
The Indian stood, without a reply, until the silence grew heavy. Mademoiselle had straightened up, and was watching with fascinated eyes. Then, slowly, the warrior turned, and beneath buckskin and feathers, dirt and smeared colours, the priest recognized Danton. He turned sadly to the maid.
“I do not understand,” he said.
She put her hands before her eyes. “I cannot talk to him,” she said, in a broken voice. “Why does he come? Why must I–” Then she collected herself, and came forward. Pity and dignity were in her voice. “I am sorry, Lieutenant Danton. I am very sorry.”
The boy choked, and Father Claude drew him, unresisting, outside the hut.
“How did you come here, Danton? Tell me.”
Danton looked at him defiantly.
“What does this mean? Where did you get these clothes?”
“It matters not where I got them. It is my affair.”
“Who gave you these clothes?”
“It is enough that I have friends, if those whom I thought friends will not aid me.”
The priest was pained by the boy’s rough words.
“I am sorry for this, my son,–for this strange disorder. Did you not receive a message from your Captain?”
Danton hesitated. “Yes,” he said at last. “I received a message,–an order to lie quiet, and let these red beasts burn me to death. Menard is a fool. Does he not know that they will kill him? Does he not know that this is his only chance to escape? He is a fool, I say.”
“You forget, my son.”
“Well, if I do? Must I stay here for the torture because my Captain commands? Why do you hold me here? Let me go. They will be after me.”
“Wait, Danton. What have you said to Mademoiselle?”
The boy looked at him, and for a moment could not speak.
“Do you, too, throw that at me, Father? It was all I could do. I thought she cared for her life more than for–for Menard. No, let me go on. I have risked everything to come for her, and she–she–I did not know it would be like this.”
“But what do you plan?” The priest’s voice was more gentle. “Where are you going? You cannot get to Frontenac alone.”
“I don’t know,” replied Danton wearily, turning away. “I don’t care now. I may as well go to the devil.”
Without a word of farewell he walked boldly off through the trees, drawing his blanket about his shoulders. Father Claude stood watching him, half in mind to call Menard, then hesitating. Already the boy was committed: he had broken his bonds, and to make any effort to hold him meant certain death for him. Perhaps it was better that he should take the only chance left to him. The hut was silent. He looked within, and saw the maid still standing by the wall. Her eyes were on him, but she said nothing, and he turned away. He walked slowly up and down under the great elms that arched far up over his head. At last he looked about for the Captain, and finding him some little way back in the woods, told him the story.
Menard’s face had aged during the day. His eyes had a dull firmness in place of the old flash. He heard the account without a word, and, at the close, when the priest looked at him questioningly for a reply, he shook his head sadly. His experiment with Danton had failed.
“He didn’t tell you who had helped him?”
“No, M’sieu. It is very strange.”
“Yes,” said Menard, “it is.”
The night passed without further incident. Early in the morning, Father Claude went out to find Tegakwita, and learn what news had come in during the night of the French column. Runners were employed in passing daily between the different villages, keeping each tribe fully informed.
Menard sat before the hut. The clearing showed more life than on the preceding day. Bands of warriors, hunting and scouting parties, were coming in at short intervals, scattering to their shelters or hurrying to the long building in the centre of the village. The growing boys and younger warriors ran about, calling to one another in eager, excited voices. As the morning wore along, grave chiefs and braves, wrapped in their blankets, walked by on their way to the council house.
The maid, after Father Claude had gone, watched the Captain for a long time through the open door. The conversation with the Long Arrow, on the night of their capture, had been burned into her memory; and now, as she looked at Menard’s drawn face and weary eyes, the picture came to her again of the Long Arrow sitting by the river in the dim light of the stars,–and of the white man who had fought for her, lying before him, gazing upward and speaking with a calm voice to the stern chief who wished to kill him. Then, in spite of the excitement, the danger, and exhaustion of the fight, it had seemed that the Captain could not long be held by this savage. His stern manner, his command, had given her a confidence which had, until this moment, strengthened her. But now, of a sudden, she saw in his eyes the look of a man who sees no way ahead. This quarrel with the Long Arrow was no matter of open warfare, even of race against race; it was an eye for an eye, the demand of a crazed father for the life of the slayer of his son. That she could do nothing, that she must sit feebly while he went to his death, came to her with a dead sense of pain.
With a restless spirit she went out of doors, passing him with a little smile; but he did not look up. A group of passing youths stopped and jeered at him, but he did not give them a glance. She shrank back against the building until they had gone on.
“Do not mind them, Mademoiselle,” said Menard, quietly. “They will not harm you.”
She hesitated by his side, half in mind to speak to him, to tell him that she knew his trouble, and had faith in him, but his bowed head was forbidding in its solitude. All about the hut, under the spreading trees, was a stretch of coarse green sod, dotted with tiny yellow flowers and black-centred daisies. She wandered over the grass, gathering them until her hands were full. Two red boys came by, and paused to cry at her, taunting her as if she, too, were to meet the fate of a war captive. The thought made her shudder, but then, on an impulse, she called to them in their own language. They looked at each other in surprise. She walked toward them, laying down the flowers, and holding out her hand. A little later, when Menard looked up, he saw her sitting beneath a gnarled oak, a boy on either side eagerly watching her. She was talking and laughing with them, and teaching them to make a screeching pipe with grass-blades held between the thumbs. He envied her her elastic spirits.
“You have made two friends,” he called in French.
She looked up and nodded, laughing. “They are learning to make the music of the white brothers.”
The boys’ faces had sobered at the sound of his voice. They looked at him doubtfully, and then at each other. He got up and walked slowly toward them.
“I will make friends, too, Mademoiselle,” he said, smiling. “We have none too many here.”
Before he had taken a dozen steps, the boys arose. He held out his hands, saying, “Your father would be friends with his children.” But they began to retreat, a step at a time.
“Come, my children,” said the maid, smiling at the words as she uttered them. “The white father is good. He will not hurt you.”
They kept stepping backward until he had reached the maid’s side; then, with a shout of defiance, they scampered away. In the distance they stopped, and soon were the centre of a group of children whom they taught to blow on the grass-blades, with many a half-frightened glance toward Menard and the maid.
“There,” he said, at length, “you may see the advantage of a reputation.”
She looked at him, and, moved by the pathos underlying the words, could not, for the moment, reply.
“I once had a home in this village,” he added. “It stood over there, in the bare spot near the beech tree.” His eyes rested on the spot for a moment, then he turned back to the hut.
“M’sieu,” she said shyly.
The little heap of flowers lay where she had dropped them; and, taking them up, she arranged them hastily and held them out. “Won’t you take them?”
He looked at her, a little surprised, then held out his hand.
“Why,–thank you. I don’t know what I can do with them.”
They walked back together.
“You must wear some of the daisies, Mademoiselle. They will look well.”
She looked down at her torn, stained dress, and laughed softly; but took the white cluster he gave her, and thrust the stems through a tattered bit of lace on her breast.
Menard was plainly relieved by the incident. He had been worn near to despair, facing a difficulty which seemed every moment farther from a solution; and now he turned to her fresh, light mood as to a refuge.
“We must put these in water, Mademoiselle, or they will soon lose their bloom.”
“If we had a cup–?”
“A cup? A woodsman would laugh at your question. There is the spring, here is the birch; what more could you have?”
“You mean–?”
“We will make a cup,–if you will hold the flowers. They are beautiful, Mademoiselle. No nation has such hills and lakes and flowers as the Iroquois. The Hurons boast of their lake country,–and the Sacs and Foxes, too, though they have a duller eye for the picturesque. See–the valley yonder–” He pointed through a rift in the foliage to the league-long glimpse of green, bound in by the gentle hills that rose beyond–“even to the tired old soldier there is nothing more beautiful, more peaceful.”
He peeled a long strip of bark from the birch tree, and rolled it into a cup. “Your needle and thread, Mademoiselle,–if they have not taken them.”
“No; I have everything here.”
She got her needle, and under his direction stitched the edges of the bark.
“But it will leak, M’sieu.”
He laughed. “The tree is the Indian’s friend, Mademoiselle. Now it is a pine tree that we need. The guards will tell me of one.”
He walked over to the little group of warriors still at their game of platter,–the one never-ceasing recreation of the Onondagas, at which they would one day gamble away blankets, furs, homes, even squaws, only to win them back on the next. They looked at him suspiciously when he questioned them; but he was now as light of heart as on the day, a few weeks earlier, when he had leaned on the balcony of the citadel at Quebec, idly watching the river. He smiled at them, and after a parley the maid saw one tall brave point to a tree a few yards farther in the wood. They followed him closely with their eyes until he was back within the space allowed him.
“Now, Mademoiselle, we can gum the seams,–see? It is so easy. The cold water will harden it.”
They went together to the spring and filled the cup, first drinking each a draught. He rolled a large stone to the hut door, and set the cup on it.
“Oh, Mademoiselle, it will not stand. I am not a good workman, I fear. But then, it is not often in a woodsman’s life that he keeps flowers at his door. We must have some smaller stones to prop it up.”
“I will get them, M’sieu.” In spite of his protests she ran out to the path and brought some pebbles. “Now we have decorated our home.” She sat upon the ground, leaning against the log wall, and smiling up at him. “Sit down, M’sieu. I am tired of being solemn, we have been solemn so long.”
Already the heaviness was coming back on the Captain. He wondered, as he looked at her, if she knew how serious their situation was. It hardly seemed that she could understand it, her gay mood was so genuine. She glanced up again, and at the sight of the settling lines about his mouth and the fading sparkle in his eyes, her own eyes, while the smile still hovered, grew moist.
“I am sorry,” she said softly,–“very, very sorry.”
He sat near by, and fingered the flowers in the birch cup. They were both silent. Finally she spoke.
“M’sieu.”
He looked down.
“It may be that you think that–that I do not understand. It is not that, M’sieu. But when I think about it, and the sadness comes, I know, some way, that it is going to come out all right. We are prisoners, but other people have been prisoners, too. I have heard of many of them from Father Dumont. He himself has suffered among the Oneidas. I–I cannot believe it, even when it seems the darkest.”
“I hope you are right, Mademoiselle. I, too, have felt that there must be a way. And at the worst, they will not dare to hurt Father Claude and–you.” And under his breath he added, “Thank God.”
“They will not dare to hurt you, M’sieu. They must not do it.” She rose and stood before him. “When I think of that,–that you, who have done so much that I might be safe, are in danger, I feel that it would be cowardly for me to go away without you. You would not have left me, on the river. I know you would have died without a thought. And I–if anything should happen, M’sieu; if Father Claude and I should be set free, and–without you–I could never put it from my thoughts. I should always feel that I–that you–no no, M’sieu. They cannot do it.”
She shook away a tear, and looked at him with an honest, fearless gaze. It was the outpouring of a grateful heart, true because she herself was true, because she could not accept his care and sacrifice without a thought of what she owed him.
“You forget,” he said gently, “that it was not your fault. They could have caught me as easily if you had not been there. It is a soldier’s chance, Mademoiselle. He must take what life brings, with no complaint. It is the young man’s mistake to be restless, impatient. For the rest of us, why, it is our life.”
“But, M’sieu, you are not discouraged? You have not given up?”
“No, I have not given up.” He rose and looked into her eyes. “I have come through before; I may again. If I am not to get through, I shall fight them till I drop. And then, I pray God, I may die like a soldier.”
He turned away and went into the hut. He was in the hardest moment of his trial. It was the inability to fight, the lack of freedom, of weapons, the sense of helplessness, that had come nearer to demoralizing Menard than a hundred battles. He had been trusted with the life of a maid, and, more important still, with the Governor’s orders. He was, it seemed, to fail.
The maid stood looking after him. She heard him drop to the ground within. Then she roamed aimlessly about, near the building.
Father Claude came up the path, walking slowly and wearily, and entered the hut. A moment later Menard appeared in the doorway and called:–
“Mademoiselle.” As she approached, he said gravely, “I should like it if you will come in with us. It is right that you should have a voice in our councils.”
She followed him in, wondering.
“Father Claude has news,” Menard said.
The priest told them all that he had been able to learn. Runners had been coming in during the night at intervals of a few hours. They brought word of the landing of the French column at La Famine. The troops had started inland toward the Seneca villages. The Senecas were planning an ambush, and meanwhile had sent frantic messages to the other tribes for aid. The Cayuga chiefs were already on the way to meet in council with the Onondagas. The chance that the attack might be aimed only at the Senecas, to punish them for their depredations of the year before, had given rise to a peace sentiment among the more prudent Onondagas and Cayugas, who feared the destruction of their fields and villages. Up to the present, none had known where the French would strike. But, nevertheless, said the priest, the general opinion was favourable to taking up the quarrel with the Senecas.
Further, the French were leaving a rearguard of four hundred men in a hastily built stockade at La Famine, and the more loose-tongued warriors were already talking of an attack on this force, cutting the Governor’s communications, and then turning on him from the rear, leaving it to the Senecas to engage him in front.