DANTON BREAKS OUT.
When Menard reached the wharf, early on the following morning, he
found Father Claude waiting for him. The new canoe lay on the wharf,
and beside it was a heap of stores. Perrot and the two new _engages_
sat on the edge of the wharf. The sun had just risen over the trees on
St. Helen's Island, and the air was clear and cool.
"Well, Perrot," said Menard, as he unslung his musket and horn, "is
everything ready?"
"Everything, M'sieu."
"Where is Guerin?"
"I have not seen him, M'sieu."
Menard turned to the priest.
"Good-morning, Father. You are on time, I see; and that is more than
we can say for Danton. Where is the boy?"
"He has gone for Mademoiselle St. Denis, Captain. He was here before
the sunrise, checking up the stores."
"Learning to work, is he? That is a good sign. And how about yourself?
Did you pick up anything yesterday?"
"Yes," replied the priest. "I enquired at the Mission about Teganouan
and his companions."
"Well?"
"Nothing is known of them. Teganouan had been one of the worst
drunkards among the Onondagas, and his conversion, a year ago, was
thought to be one of our greatest victories for the faith. His
penances were among the most complete and purging ever--"
"And the others?"
"Just before I left the Mission for Quebec, Teganouan went on an
errand to the city and fell among some of our fellow-countrymen who
were having a drinking bout. For a few days after that he wavered, and
fell again. Once afterward he was seen in company with two low
fellows, _coureurs de bois_, who have since been confined under
suspicion of communicating with the enemy."
"He has returned to the Mission, then?"
"No, he disappeared some time ago. They do not know the Long Arrow. I
described him to Brother de Lamberville--"
"Oh, he is here now?"
"Yes. It seems, further, that all the other workers among the Iroquois
have had word and are returning. That much of my labour is removed."
"How do they get this word?" said Menard, impatiently. "That is the
old question. It is enough to make one wonder if there are any secrets
kept from the enemy's country."
"No one seems to know, M'sieu. The Superior told me last night that
they had not been sent for, so it would seem that the information must
have reached them through the Indians."
"The folly of these new governors!" Menard strode back and forth. "Oh,
it makes one sigh for old Frontenac. He never walked blindfolded into
such a trap as this. But go on. You were speaking of Father de
Lamberville."
"It was only that I described the Long Arrow to Brother de Lamberville.
He seemed to remember such a wampum collar as the Long Arrow wore. He
could not recall exactly."
"Then we may as well forget the incident. It seems that we are to know
nothing of it. Here is Danton."
The lieutenant and the maid were walking rapidly down to the wharf.
Mademoiselle was in a gay mood after her few hours of enjoyment among
the comforts of a city.
"Good-morning," she called, waving her hand.
"Good-morning," said Menard, shortly. He did not look a second time,
to see her smile fade, for Guerin had not appeared, and he was rapidly
losing patience. He walked up and down the wharf for a few moments,
while Danton found a seat for the maid and the two talked together.
"Perrot," he said, "do you know where Guerin was last evening?"
"Yes, M'sieu. He was at the inn."
"What was he doing? Drinking?"
"A little, M'sieu."
"Go up there, on the run. If you don't find him there, come right
back, for we can't wait much longer for anyone."
Perrot ran up the street and disappeared. In a few moments he came in
sight, striding down between the row of houses, holding Guerin firmly
by one arm. The young fellow was hanging back, and stumbling in limp
fashion. He was evidently drunk. Danton, who had joined Menard when
the two men appeared, said, "Heavens, he must have started early!"
Some distance behind Perrot and Guerin came a ragged crowd of
woodsmen, singing, jeering, and shouting, and bearing broad traces of
a sleepless night.
Menard stood waiting with a look of disgust. When they came upon the
wharf Guerin laughed, and tried to get out a flippant apology for his
tardiness; but Menard seized him before the words were off his lips,
and dragging him across the wharf threw him into the water. Then he
turned to Perrot, and said, "Pull him out."
The two new men stood uneasily near, with startled faces. Behind them
the maid was sitting, a frightened look in her eyes. Danton had
risen.
"Clear away from here!" Menard called to the drunken rabble, who had
collected a few rods away, and were now hesitating between laughter
and fright. They stood looking at each other and at Menard, then they
slunk away.
In all an hour had gone before they were ready to start. Guerin was
weak and shivering from his plunge, but Menard ordered him into the
canoe. The incident drew a cloud over the maid's spirits, and
altogether depressed the party, so that not until afternoon did they
get into conversation. By that time they were past the Lachine Rapids
and the Sault St. Louis, where the men made a portage, and Danton led
the maid along the bank through the tangled brush and briers. When at
last they were ready to push on across Lake St. Louis the maid's skirt
was torn in a dozen places, and a thorn had got into her hand, which
Danton carefully removed with the point of his knife, wincing and
flushing with her at each twinge of pain. During the rest of the day,
they had an Iroquois lesson, and by the end of the afternoon when the
sun was low, and Menard headed for the shore of Isle Perrot, the maid
was bright again, laughing over Danton's blunders in the new
language.
They spent the next day on the island, for what with wind and rain
the lake was impassable for their canoe. The men built a hut of brush
and bark which sheltered the party from the driving rain. Menard's
mood lightened at the prospect of a rest, and he started a long
conversation in Iroquois which soon had even Father Claude laughing
in his silent way. The rain lessened in the afternoon, but the wind
was still running high. Menard and the _engages_ went out early in
the afternoon and repacked all the supplies, in order that the
weight might be distributed more evenly in the canoe. With this and
other work he was occupied until late in the afternoon. Father Claude
took the occasion for a solitary walk, and for meditation. When Menard
entered the hut he found the maid sitting with her head resting
against one of the supporting trees. She wore a disturbed, unsettled
expression. Danton evidently had been sitting or standing near her,
for when Menard entered, stooping, he was moving across the hut in a
hesitating, conscious manner. The Captain looked at them curiously.
"I'm afraid we'll have to take away a part of your house to pay for
your supper," he said. "Everything is wet outside that might do for
firewood. Lend a hand, Danton." He gathered logs and sticks from the
floor and walls, and carried them out. Danton, after a quick look
toward the maid (which, of course, Menard saw), did the same.
The Captain was the first to reenter the hut. The maid had not moved,
and her eyes were puzzled and wearied, but she tried to smile.
"Has it stopped raining?" she asked.
Menard gave her an amused glance, and pointed to a sparkling beam of
sunlight that came slanting in through an opening in the wall, and
buried itself in a little pool of light on the trampled ground. She
looked at it, flushed, and turned her eyes away. He stood for a
moment, half minded to ask the question that was on his tongue, but
finally held it back. In a moment Danton came back, looking
suspiciously at each of them as he stooped to gather another armful of
wood.
Menard was thoughtful during the evening meal. Afterward he slipped
his arm through Father Claude's, and led him for a short walk, giving
him an account of the incident. "I didn't say anything at the time,"
he concluded, "partly because I thought I might be mistaken, and
partly because it would have been the worst thing I could do. I begin
to see--I should have foreseen it before I spoke to him about the
girl--that we have trouble ahead, Father, with these precious
children. I confess I don't know just what to do about it. We must
think it over. Anyway, you had better talk to her. She would tell you
what she wouldn't tell me. If he's annoying her, we must know it."
Father Claude was troubled.
"The maid is in our care," he said, "and also in that of Lieutenant
Danton. It would seem that he--"
"There's no use in expecting him to take any responsibility, Father."
"Yes, I suppose you are right. He is a child."
"Will you go to the maid, Father, and get straight at the truth? You
see that I cannot meddle with her thoughts without danger of being
misinterpreted. It is you who must be her adviser."
The priest acquiesced, and they returned to the camp, to find the maid
still sitting alone, with a troubled face, and Danton puttering about
the fire with a show of keeping himself occupied. They ate in silence,
in spite of Menard's efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung
about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in
gathering about the fire. Menard saw that Father Claude had it in mind
to speak to the maid, so he got Danton away on a pretext of looking
over the stores. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all
their minds, preferring to await the priest's report.
After the maid had gone to her couch beneath the canoe, and Danton had
wandered into the wilderness that was all about them, Father Claude
joined Menard at the fire.
"Well, Father, what word?"
"Softly, M'sieu. It is not likely that she sleeps as yet."
"Well?"
"I have talked long with her, but she is of a stubborn mind."
"How is that?"
"She was angry at first. She spoke hastily, and asked me in short
terms to leave her in solitude. And then, after a time, when she began
to see that it was her welfare and our duty which I had in mind, and
not an idle curiosity, she was moved."
"Did she speak then?"
"No, M'sieu, she wept, and insisted that there was no trouble on her
mind,--it was merely the thought of her home and her father that had
cast her down."
"And so she has pride," mused Menard. "Could you gather any new
opinions, Father? Do you think that they may already have come to some
understanding?"
"I hardly think so, M'sieu. But may I suggest that it would be well to
be firm with Lieutenant Danton? He is young, and the maid is in our
trust,"
"True, Father. I will account for him."
There seemed to be nothing further to do at the moment, so the priest
went to his blanket, and Menard drew a bundle under his head and went
to sleep, after a glance about the camp to see that the sentry was on
watch. Now that Montreal lay behind, and the unsettled forest before,
with only a thin line of Frenchmen stretched along the river between
them and Fort Frontenac, he had divided the night into watches, and
each of the four _engages_ stood his turn.
The following day was all but half gone before the wind had dropped to
a rate that made the passage of the lake advisable. Menard ordered the
noon meal for an hour earlier than usual, and shortly afterward they
set out across the upper end of Lake St. Louis to the foot of the
cascades. Before the last bundle had been carried up the portage to
Buisson Pointe, the dusk was settling over the woods across the river,
and over the rising ground on Isle Perrot at the mouth of the Ottawa.
During the next day they passed on up the stream to the Coteau des
Cedres. Menard and Father Claude were both accustomed to take the
rapid without carrying, or even unloading, but Danton looked at the
swirling water with doubt in his eyes. When the maid, leaning back in
the canoe while the men halted at the bank to make fast for the
passage, saw the torrent that tumbled and pitched merrily down toward
them, she laughed. To hold a sober mood for long was not in her
buoyant nature, and she welcomed a dash of excitement as a relief from
the strained relations of the two days just gone.
"M'sieu," she called to Menard, with a sparkle in her eyes. "Oh,
M'sieu, may I stay in the canoe?"
Danton turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and a look, half of
pain, half of surprise, came over his face as he saw her eagerness.
Menard looked at her in doubt.
"It may be a wet passage, Mademoiselle."
"And why not, M'sieu? Have I not been wet before? See, I will protect
myself." She drew the bundles closely about her feet, and threw a
blanket across her knees. "Now I can brave the stream, Captain.
Or,"--her gay tone dropped, and she looked demurely at him,--"perhaps
it is that I am too heavy, that I should carry myself up the bank. I
will obey my orders, Captain." But as she spoke she tucked the blanket
closer about her, and stole another glance at Menard.
He smiled. He was thinking of Madame Gordeau and her fragile daughter,
who had shuddered with fear at a mere glimpse of the first rapid.
"Very well," he said, "Mademoiselle shall stay in the canoe."
"But it is not safe"--broke in Danton, stepping forward. Then,
conscious of the blunder, he turned away, and took up the rope.
"Lay hold, boys," said Menard.
Perrot and one of the new men waded into the water, and laid hold of
the gunwales on each side of the bow. Menard himself took the stern.
He called to Danton, who stood awkwardly upon the bank, "Take the rope
with the men."
Guerin made the rope fast and set out ahead, with the other men and
Danton close behind. Father Claude rolled up his robe and joined
them.
"Wait," called Menard, as the rope straightened. "Mademoiselle, I am
sorry to disturb you, but if you will sit farther back you will have
less trouble from the spray." He waded along the side, and helped her
to move nearer the stern, placing the bundles and the blanket about
her as before. Then he shouted, "All right," and they started into the
foaming water.
They toiled slowly up the incline, catching at rocks to steady their
course, and often struggling for a foothold. Once Menard ordered a
halt at a large rock, and all rested for a moment.
When they started again, the men at the bow of the canoe had some
trouble in holding it steady, for their feet were on a stretch of
smooth rock, and Menard called Danton back to help them. The boy
worked his way along the rope, and reached the bow.
"Come around behind Perrot," said Menard.
Danton reached around Perrot's body, and caught hold of the gunwale.
At that moment his foot slipped, and he fell, dragging the side of the
canoe down with him. The men at the bow did their best to prevent a
capsize, but succeeded only in keeping half the bundles in the canoe.
The others, the muskets, and the maid went into the river.
Menard moved forward as rapidly as he could against the current. The
maid was unable at once to get her feet, used as she was to the water,
and was swept down against him. He caught her, and, steadying himself
with one hand, by the water-logged canoe, raised her head and held her
while she struggled for a footing and shook the water from her eyes.
Before she was wholly herself, Danton came plunging toward them.
"Give her to me!" he said huskily. "I've drowned her! My God, let me
have her!"
"Stop," said Menard, sternly. "Take the men, and go after those
bales--quick!"
Danton looked stupidly at him and at the maid, who was wiping the
water from her face with one hand, and holding tightly to the Captain.
Then he followed Perrot, who had already, with the two new men and
Father Claude, commenced to get together the bales, most of which had
sunk, and were moving slowly along the bottom. Menard still had his
arm about the girl's shoulders. He helped her to the shore.
"Keep moving, Mademoiselle,--don't sit down. In a moment we shall have
a fire. Father Claude," he called, "bring the canoe ashore." Then to
the maid, "There are yet some dry blankets, thank God."
Mademoiselle was herself now, and she protested. "But it is only
water, M'sieu. Let me go on with you, beyond the rapids."
Menard merely shook his head. The canoe was soon on the bank, and
emptied of water. The other men were beginning to come in with soaked
bundles and dripping muskets. Each bale was opened, and the contents
spread out to dry, while Guerin was set to work at drying the muskets
with a cloth. Perrot and Danton built a rough shelter for the maid,
enclosing a small fire, and gave her some dry blankets. Then each man
dried himself as best he could.
This accident threw Danton into a fit of gloominess from which nothing
seemed to arouse him. He was careless of his duty, and equally
careless to the reprimands that followed. This went on for two days,
during which the maid seemed at one moment to avoid him, and at
another to watch for his coming. In the evening of the second day
following, the party camped at Pointe a Baudet, on Lake St. Francis.
The supper was eaten in a silence more oppressive than usual, for
neither Menard nor Father Claude could overcome the influence of
Danton's heavy face and the maid's troubled eyes. After the supper the
two strolled away, and sat just out of earshot on a mossy knoll. For
hours they talked there, their voices low, save once or twice when
Danton's rose. They seemed to have lost all count of time, all heed of
appearances. Menard and the priest made an effort at first to appear
unobservant, but later, seeing that their movements were beyond the
sight of those unheeding eyes, they took to watching and speculating
on the course of the conversation. The night came on, and the dark
closed over them. Still the murmur of those low voices floated across
the camp.
Father Claude, with a troubled mind, went down to the water, and
walked slowly up and down. Menard saw to the final preparations for
the night, and posted the first sentry. Then he joined the priest.
"Father?"
"Yes."
"I think it is time to speak."
"I fear it is, M'sieu."
"I must leave it in your hands."
"Shall I go now?"
"Yes."
Without further words, Father Claude walked up the bank, crackling
through the bushes. From this spot the voices were inaudible, and for
a few moments there was no sound. Then Menard could hear some one
moving heavily through the undergrowth, going farther and farther into
the stillness, and he knew that it was Danton. He sat on the bank with
his back against a tree, and waited for a long hour. At last he
dropped asleep.
He was awakened by Father Claude. The priest dropped to the ground
beside him. His training had given Menard the faculty of awaking
instantly into full grasp of a situation.
"Well," he said. "Where is the maid?"
"She has gone to her couch, but not to sleep, I fear. It has come,
M'sieu."
"What has come?"
"Danton has lost his senses. He asks her to marry him, to flee with
him. It is a difficult case. She has had no such experience before,
and knows not how to receive him. She seems to have no love for him,
beyond the pleasure his flattery has given her. She believes all he
says. One thing I know, aside from all questions of expediency, of
care for our trust, this must not go on."
"Not for the present, at least. She may do what she will, once we have
taken her safely to Frontenac."
"No, M'sieu; not even then. We must stop it at once."
"Oh, of course," said Menard; "so far as we are concerned, we have no
choice. You need not bother longer to-night. I will wait for the boy.
I am sorry for him."
"I should have more pity, if I knew less of his past."
"Tush, Father! He is not a bad fellow, as they go. To be sure he does
not rise any too well to new responsibilities, but he will grow into
it. It is better an honest infatuation with the daughter of a
gentleman than a dishonest one with an Indian maid. And you know our
officers, Father. God knows, they are all bad enough; and yet they are
loyal fellows."
"Ah, M'sieu, I fear you will be too lenient with him. Believe me, we
have not a minute to waste in stopping the affair."
"Have no fear, Father. Good-night."
"Good-night."
Menard lay on the bank, gazing at the sparkling water, and listening
to the slow step of the sentry and to the deeper sounds of the forest.
Another hour crept by, and still Danton had not returned. Menard
walked about the camp to make sure that he was not already rolled in
his blanket; then he went to the sentry, who was leaning against a
tree a few rods away.
"Colin," he said, "have you seen Lieutenant Danton?"
"Yes, M'sieu. He is up there." Colin pointed through the trees that
fringed the river. "I heard a noise some time ago, and went up to see.
He is lying under a beech tree, if he has not moved,--and I should
have heard him if he had. It may be that he is asleep."
Menard nodded, and walked slowly along the bank, bending aside the
briers that caught at his clothes and his hands.