A COMPLIMENT FOR MENARD.
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 a 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 _engage_ 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.