With the dawning of the second day of the defence of Castle Dangerous,
the spirits of all rose, all, that is, except one, and this was Dame
Marguerite, the wife of Sieur Fontaine. She, poor soul, had but lately
come from Paris, and was yet a stranger to the difficulties and dangers
of life in the wilderness.
Her complaints were unceasing, and she gave her husband no rest,
constantly imploring him to carry her to another fort. Her selfish
thought was for herself alone, and she cried,—
“Save me, Pierre, save me. Was it to expose me to such horrible danger
that you sent for me to come from Paris, where I was safe and happy?”
“I sent for you and our children, that we might all be together and make
a home in this new free land. But methinks that perhaps it had been best
to let thee remain where thou wast, and where there was nothing to
disturb thy ease.”
“It is in my heart to wish well that I was there again, Pierre, and had
never seen this hateful wilderness. Oh, wilt thou not take me to some
place of safety ere I die with fright?”
“Peace, woman, and shame me no further by thy childish plaint, for the
very children are more brave than thou. As for Mademoiselle Madelon, she
has the courage of a man, though she is but a girl, nor will I ever
leave this fort while she is here to defend it.”
After this the woman subsided into a peevish quiet, which was at least
easier to bear than her complaints. All the others, even those who had
lost fathers, husbands, or brothers, put aside their griefs, and united
in an effort to compass their common safety. The meals were served out
as usual, the work inside the fort progressed as it did each day, since
each one felt that the best way to keep grief at bay was to occupy one’s
self in helping others. During the middle of the afternoon all the
people were called together by Madelon, so that their situation could be
discussed. The soldiers, poor creatures, knew not what to counsel, and
sought only to stay in the blockhouse, the safest spot. Small account
was taken of them, though they were the very ones to whom the others
should have looked for protection.
Sieur Fontaine, the old man, and the two boys were of course for
staying, and not endeavouring to escape by night down the river.
Encouraged by them, Madelon made a little speech to the garrison and the
women and children under their charge.
“Dear friends,” said she, “never willingly will I give up the fort.
Rather would I die than that the enemy should gain it. Hear what my
father said to me, that it was of the greatest importance that the
Iroquois should never gain possession of any French fort, since, if they
gained one, soon they would grow more bold, and think they could get
others, and after that all safety would be at an end.”
“What you say is true enough,” said the Sieur Fontaine, rising in his
turn to encourage the people. “Nor may any of us complain, if a girl be
brave enough to stay on the bastions for a day and a night without rest
or repose, and who ever carries before us a cheerful face. I, for one,
cry, ‘Viva, viva! Long live brave Madelon!’”
“Viva, viva!” they cried, one and all; and the feeble garrison returned
to their posts, reanimated and hopeful that relief would come to save
them.
For a weary week they were in constant alarm. Each day showed them the
enemy lurking about, and each night made them fearful that the attack
which had not come during the light would be attempted during the
darkness. But every night dragged itself away at last, and each morning
brought, if not the help so eagerly expected, at least courage to wait
for it. On the eighth night poor weary Madelon was dozing in the fort,
with her head pillowed on a table, and her gun beside her, when she
heard the sentinel on watch call,—
“Qui vive?”
She sprang to her feet, and with her gun in her hand ran up on to the
bastion.
“Why called you?”
“Listen, Mademoiselle! Dost thou not hear a sound on the river like the
splashing of oars?”
“Surely yes; there are voices too. Canst thou tell if they be French or
Indian?”
“No; they breathe so low, Mademoiselle.”