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.
[Transcriber's Note: An illustration of picture-writing appears
here in the text with the following caption:
NOTE.--By this picture-writing the Long Arrow (of the clan of the
Beaver) tells the Beaver (of the same clan) that he has taken up
the hatchet against the party in the canoe, and he asks the Beaver
to assist him. The parallel zigzag lines under the long arrow tell
that he is travelling by the river, and the two straight lines
under these that he has two warriors with him. The attack is to be
made in either three or four sleeps, or days, as indicated by the
three finished huts and one unfinished.
The Beaver has seen this sign, as shown by his signature at the
bottom. The seventeen slanting lines under the foot mean that he
has seventeen warriors and they are travelling on foot, southward,
as shown by the fact that the lines slope toward the sun.
That the figures in the canoe are French is shown by their hats.
The priest has no paddle, the maid is represented with long
hair.]
"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 _engages_ 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.