THE WORD OF AN ONONDAGA.
For a long time after Father Claude had finished speaking, the three
sat talking over the situation. Even the maid had suggestions. But
when all had been said, when the chances of a rescue by the French, or
of getting a hearing before the council, even of a wild dash for
liberty, had been gone over and over, their voices died away, and the
silence was eloquent. D'Orvilliers would know that only capture could
have prevented them from reaching the fort; but even supposing him to
believe that they were held by the Onondagas, he had neither the men
nor the authority to fight through the Cayuga lakes and hills to reach
them. As for the Governor's column, it would have its hands full
before marching ten leagues from La Famine. Had Menard been alone, he
would have made the attempt to escape, knowing from the start that the
chance was near to nothing, but glad of the opportunity at least to
die fighting. But with Mademoiselle to delay their progress, and to
suffer his fate if captured, it was different. As matters stood, she
was likely to be released with Father Claude, as soon as he should be
disposed of. And so his mind had settled on staying, and dying, if he
must, alone.
"I have not known whether to tell all," said Father Claude, after the
silence. "And yet it would seem that Mademoiselle may as well know the
truth now as later."
"You have not told me?" she said, with reproach in her voice. "Must I
always be a child to you, Father? If God has seen it best to place me
here, am I not to help bear the burden?"
"Mademoiselle is right, Father. Hold nothing back. Three stout hearts
are better than two."
The priest looked gravely at the fire.
"The word has gone out," he said. "The Long Arrow, by his energy and
his eloquence, but most of all because he had the courage to capture
the Big Buffalo in the enemy's country with but a score of braves, now
controls the village. To-morrow night the great council will begin.
The war chiefs of all the Cayuga and Onondaga and Oneida and Mohawk
villages will meet here and decide whether to take up the hatchet
against the white men. The Long Arrow well knows that his power will
last only until the greater chiefs come, and he will have his revenge
before his day wanes."
"When?" asked the Captain.
"To-morrow morning, M'sieu. The feasting and dancing will begin
to-night."
The maid was looking at the priest. "I do not understand," she said.
"What will he do?"
"He means me, Mademoiselle," said the Captain, quietly.
"Not--" she said, "not--"
"Yes," he replied. "They will bring us no food to-night. In the
morning they will come for me."
"Oh, M'sieu, they cannot! They--" She gazed at him, not heeding the
tears that suddenly came to her eyes and fell down upon her cheeks;
and, as she looked, she understood what was in his mind. "Why do you
not escape, M'sieu? There is yet time,--to-night! You are thinking of
me, and I--I--Oh, I have been selfish--I did not know! We will stay
here, Father Claude and I. You need not think of us; they will not
harm us--you told me that yourself, M'sieu. I should be in your way,
but alone--it is so easy." She would have gone on, but Menard held up
his hand.
"No," he said, shaking his head, "no."
Her lips moved, but she saw the expression in his eyes, and the words
died. She turned to Father Claude, but he did not look up.
"I do not know," said Menard, slowly, "whether the heart of the Big
Throat is still warm toward me. He was once as my father."
"He will not be here in time," Father Claude said. "He does not start
from his village until the sun is dropping on the morrow."
The maid could not take her eyes from Menard's face. Now that the
final word had come, now that all the doubts of the unsettled day, now
only half gone, had settled into a fact to be faced, he was himself
again, the quiet, resolute soldier. Only the set, almost hard lines
about the mouth told of his suffering.
"If we had a friend here," he was saying, quietly enough, "it may be
that Tegakwita--But no, of course not. I had forgotten about
Danton--"
"Tegakwita has lost standing in the tribe for allowing Lieutenant
Danton to escape. He is very bitter, We can ask nothing from him."
"No, I suppose not."
The cool air of these two men, the manner in which they could face the
prospect, coupled with her own sense of weakness, weighed hard upon
the maid's heart. She felt that she must cry out, must in some manner
give way to her feelings. She rose and hurried into the open air. The
broad sunlight was still sifting down through the leaves and lying
upon the green earth in bright patches. The robins were singing, and
many strange birds, whose calls she did not know, but who piped
gently, musically, so in harmony with the soft landscape that their
notes seemed a part of it. It was all unreal, this quiet, sunlit
world, where the birds were free as the air which bore their songs,
while the brave Captain--she could not face the thought.
The birch cup was still on the stone by the door. She lifted out the
flowers with their dripping stems, and rearranged them carefully,
placing a large yellow daisy in the centre.
An Indian was approaching up the path. He had thrown aside his
blanket, and he strode rapidly, clad in close-fitting jacket and
leggings of deerskin, with knife and hatchet slung at his waist. He
came straight to the hut and entered, brushing by her without a
glance. Just as he passed she recognized him. He was Tegakwita. Her
fear of these stern warriors had suddenly gone, and she followed him
into the doorway to hear his errand. Menard greeted him with a nod;
Father Claude, too, was silent.
"The White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has a grateful heart," said the
Indian, in cutting tones. She was glad that she could understand him.
She took a flower from the bunch at her breast, and stood motionless
in the low doorway, pulling the petals apart, one by one and watching
the little group within. The priest and the Captain were sitting on
the ground, Menard with his hands clasped easily about his knees.
Tegakwita stood erect, with his back to the door. "He feels the love
of a brother for those who would make sacrifices for him," he went on.
"It was many years ago that he saved Tegakwita from the perils of the
hunt. Tegakwita has not forgotten. When the White Chief became a
captive, he had not forgotten. He has lost his brave name as a warrior
because he believed in the White Chief. He has lost--" his voice grew
tremulous with the emotion that lay underneath the words--"He has lost
his sister, whom he sent to be a sister to the white man and his
squaw."
"My brother speaks strangely," said Menard, looking up at him half
suspiciously.
"Yes, it is strange." His voice was louder, and in his excitement he
dropped the indirect form of speech that, in the case of an older
warrior, would have concealed his feelings. "It is strange that you
should send my sister, who came to you in trust, to release the white
brave. It is strange you should rob me of her whom my father placed by
my side."
Menard and Father Claude looked at each other. The Indian watched them
narrowly.
"My son is mistaken," said Father Claude, quietly. "His sister has
wandered away. It may be that she has even now returned."
"No, my Father. The white brave has stolen her."
Menard got up, and spoke with feeling.
"Tegakwita does not understand. The white brave was foolish. He is a
young warrior. He does not know the use of patience. He first escaped
against my orders. The word I sent by your sister was a command to be
patient. He went alone, my brother. He has gone forever from my camp.
It cannot be that she--"
"The Big Buffalo speaks lies. Who came to cut the white brave's bonds?
Who stole the hunting coat, the leggings of Tegakwita, that her lover
might go free? Who has dishonoured herself, her brother, the father
that--" Words failed him, and he stood facing them with blazing eyes.
Menard glanced at the maid, but she had passed the point where a shock
could sway her, and now stood quietly at the door, waiting to hear
what more the warrior would say. But he stood motionless. Father
Claude touched his arm.
"If this is true, Tegakwita, the Big Buffalo must not be held to
blame. He has spoken truly. To talk in these words to the man who has
been your brother, is the act of a dog. You have forgotten that the
Big Buffalo never speaks lies."
The Indian gave no heed to his words. He took a step forward, and
raised his hand to his knife. Menard smiled contemptuously, and spread
out his hands; he had no weapon. But Tegakwita had a second thought,
and dropped his hand.
"Tegakwita, too, never speaks lies," he said. "He will come back
before the sun has come again."
He walked rapidly out, crowding roughly past the maid.
Menajd leaned against the wall. "Poor boy!" he said, "poor boy!"
The maid came slowly in, and sat on the rude bench which leaned
against the logs near the door. The strain of the day was drawing out
all the strength, the womanhood, that lay behind her buoyant youth.
Already the tan was fading from her face, here in the hut and under
the protecting elms; and the whiteness of her skin gave her, instead
of a worn appearance, the look of an older woman,--firmer, with
greater dignity. Her eyes had a deeper, fuller understanding.
"I suppose that there is nothing, M'sieu--nothing that we can do?"
Menard shook his head. "No; nothing."
"And the Indian,--he says that he will come back?"
"Yes. I don't know what he means. It doesn't matter."
"No, I suppose it doesn't."
They were silent for a moment. The maid leaned forward. "What was
that, M'sieu?"
"Loungers, on the path."
"No, they are coming here."
Menard rose, but she stepped to the door. "Let me go, M'sieu. Ah, I
see them. It is my little friends." She went out, and they could hear
her laughing with the two children, and trying to coax them toward the
door.
"Danton will never get away," said the Captain, in a low tone to the
priest.
"I fear not, M'sieu."
"He has lost his head, poor boy. I thought him of better stuff. And
the girl--Ah, if he had only gone alone! I could forgive his rashness,
Father, his disobedience, if only he could go down with a clear
name."
"There is still doubt," said the priest, cautiously. "We know only
what Tegakwita said."
"I'm afraid," Menard replied, shaking his head, "I'm afraid it's true.
You said he wore the hunting clothes. Some one freed him. And the girl
is gone. I wish--Well, there is no use. I hoped for something better,
that is all."
Just outside the door the maid was talking gaily with the two
children, who now and then raised their piping voices. Then it was
evident that they were going away, for she was calling after them. She
came into the hut, smiling, and carrying a small willow basket full of
corn.
"See," she said, "even now it is something to have made a friend. We
shall not go hungry to-day, after all. Will you partake, Father? And
M'sieu?"
She paused before the Captain. He had stepped forward, and was staring
at her.
"Where are they?" he asked.
"The children? They are wandering along the path."
"Quick, Mademoiselle! Call them back."
She hesitated, in surprise; then set the basket on the ground and
obeyed. Menard paced the floor until she returned.
"They are outside, M'sieu, too frightened to come near."
"Give me that birch cup, outside the door." He was speaking in quick,
low tones. "They must not see me. It would frighten them."
She brought him the cup, and he emptied the flowers on the floor,
tearing open the seams, and drying the wet white bark on his sleeve.
He snatched a charred coal from the heap of ashes in the centre of the
floor, and wrote rapidly in a strange mixture of words and signs, "A
piece of thread, Mademoiselle. And look again--see that they have not
gone."
"They are waiting, M'sieu."
He rolled the bark tightly, and tied it with the thread which she
brought from her bundle.
"We must have a present. Father Claude, you have your bale.
Find something quickly,--something that will please them. No,
wait--Mademoiselle, have you a mirror? They would run fifty
leagues for a mirror."
She nodded, rummaged through her bundle, and brought out a small
glass.
"Take this, Mademoiselle. Tell them to give this letter to the Big
Throat, at the next village. They will know the way. He must have it
before the day is over. No harm can come to them. If anyone would
punish them, the Big Throat will protect them. You must make them do
it. They cannot fail."
Her face flushed, and her eyes snapped as she caught his nervous
eagerness. Even Father Claude had risen, and was watching him with
kindling eyes. She took the roll and the mirror, and ran out the door.
In a moment, Menard, pacing the floor, could hear her merry laugh, and
the shrill-voiced delight of the children over their new toy. He
caught the priest's hand.
"Father, we shall yet be free. Who could fail with such a lieutenant
as that maid. How she laughs. One would think she had never a care."
At last she came back, and sank, with a nervous, irresponsible little
laugh, on the bench. And then, for the moment, they all three laughed
together.
In the silence that followed, Father Claude moved toward the door.
"I must go out again, M'sieu. It may be that there is further word."
"Very well, Father. And open your ears for news of the poor boy."
The priest bowed, and went out. Menard stood in the door watching him,
as he walked boldly along the path. After a little he turned. The maid
was looking at him, still flushed and smiling.
"Well, Mademoiselle, we can take hope again."
"You are so brave, M'sieu."
He smiled at her impulsiveness, and looked at her, hardly conscious
that he was causing her to blush and lower her eyes.
"And so I am brave, Mademoiselle? It may be that Major Provost and
Major d'Orvilliers will not feel so."
"But they must, M'sieu."
"Do you know what they will say? They will speak with sorrow of
Captain Menard, the trusted, in whose hands Governor Denonville placed
the most important commission ever given to a captain in New France.
They will regret that their old friend was not equal to the test; that
he--ah, do not interrupt, Mademoiselle; it is true--that his failure
lost a campaign for New France. You heard Father Claude; you know what
these Indians plan to do."
"You must not speak so, M'sieu. It is wicked. He would be a coward who
could blame you. It was not your fault that you were captured. When I
return I shall go to them and tell them how you fought, and how you
faced them like--like a hero. When I return--" She stopped, as if the
word were strange.
"Aye, Mademoiselle, and God grant that you may return soon. But your
good heart leads you wrong. It was my fault that I did not bring a
force strong enough to protect myself,--and you. To fight is not a
soldier's first duty. It is to be discreet; he must know when not to
fight as well as when to draw his sword; he must know how many men are
needed to defend his cause. No; I was overconfident, and I lost. And
there we must leave it. Nothing more can be said."
He stood moodily over the heap of ashes. When he looked at her again,
she had risen.
"The flowers, M'sieu," she said, "you--you threw them away."
He glanced down. They lay at his feet. Silently he knelt and gathered
them.
"Will you help me, Mademoiselle? We will make another cup. And these
two large daisies,--did you see how they rested side by side on the
ground when I would have trampled on them? You will take one and I the
other; and when this day shall be far in the past, it may be that you
will remember it, and how we two were here together, waiting for the
stroke that should change life for us."
He held it out, and she, with lowered eyes, reached to take it from
his hand, but suddenly checked the motion and turned to the door.
"Will you take it, Mademoiselle?"
She did not move; and he stood, the soldier, helpless, waiting for a
word. He had forgotten everything,--the low, smoke-blackened hut, the
responsibility that lay on his shoulders, the danger of the
moment,--everything but the slender maid who stood before him, who
would not take the flower from his hand. Then he stepped to her side,
and, taking away the other flowers from the lace beneath her throat,
he placed the single daisy in their stead. Her eyes were nearly
closed, and she seemed hardly to know that he was there.
"And it may be," he whispered softly, "that we, like the flowers,
shall be spared."
She turned slowly away, and sank upon the bench. Menard, with a
strange, new lightness in his heart, went out into the sunlight.
The day wore on. The warm sunbeams, that slipped down through the
foliage, lengthened and reached farther and farther to the east. The
bright spots of light crept across the grass, climbed the side of the
hut and the tree-trunks, lingered on the upreaching twigs, and died
away in the blue sky. The evening star shot out its white spears,
glowing and radiant, long before the light had gone, or the purple and
golden afterglow had faded into twilight. Menard's mind went back to
another day, just such a glorious, shining June day as this had been,
when he had sat not a hundred yards from this spot, waiting, as now,
for the end. He looked at his fingers. They were scarred and knotted;
one drunken, frenzied squaw had mangled them with her teeth. He had
wondered then how a man could endure such torture as had come to him,
and still could live and think, could even struggle back to health.
The depression had gone from him now; his mind was more alert than
since the night of the capture. Whether it was the bare chance of help
from the Big Throat, or the gentle sadness in the face of the maid as
she bowed her head to the single daisy on her breast,--something had
entered into his nerves and heart, something hopeful and strong, He
wondered, as Father Claude came up the path, slowly, laboriously, why
the priest should be so saddened. After all, the world was green and
bright, and life, even a few hours of it, was sweet.
"What news, Father?"
The priest shook his head. "Little, M'sieu."
"Has the feast begun?"
"Not yet. They are assembling before the Long House."
"Are they drinking?"
"Yes."
There was no need for talk, and so the two men sat before the hut,
with only an idle word now and then, until the dark came down. The
quiet of the village was broken now by the shouts of drinking
warriors, with a chanting undertone that rose and swelled slowly into
the song that would continue, both men knew, until the break of day,
or until none was left with sober tongue to carry the wavering air. A
great fire had been lighted, and they could see the glare and the
sparks beyond a cluster of trees and huts. Later, straggling braves
appeared, wandering about, bottle or flask in hand, crazed by the raw
brandy with which the English and Dutch of New York and Orange and the
French of the province alike saw fit to keep the Indians supplied.
A group of the warriors came from the dance, and staggered toward the
hut of the captives. They were armed with knives and hatchets. One had
an arquebuse, which he fired at the trees as often as the uncertain
hands of all of them could load it. He caught sight of the white men
sitting in the shadow, and came toward them, his fellows at his
heels.
"Move nearer the door," whispered Menard. "They must not get in."
The two edged along the ground without rising, until they sat with
their backs in the open doorway. The Indians hung about, a few yards
away, jeering and shouting. The one with the arquebuse evidently
wished to shoot, but the others were holding his arms, and reasoning
in thick voices. No construction of the Iroquois traditions could make
it right to kill a prisoner who was held for the torture.
The white men watched them quietly. Menard heard a rustle, and the
sound of a quick breath behind him, and he said, without taking his
eyes from the Indians:--
"Step back, Mademoiselle, behind the wall. You must not stand here."
The warrior broke away from the hands that held him, staggering a rod
across the grass before he could recover his balance. The others went
after him, but he quickly rested the piece and fired. The ball went
over their heads through the doorway, striking with a low noise
against the rear wall. Menard rose, jerking away from the priest's
restraining hand.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "you are not hurt?"
"No, M'sieu."
"Thank God!" He stood glaring at the huddled band of warriors, who
were trying to reload the arquebuse; then he bounded forward, broke
into the group with a force that sent two to the ground, snatched the
weapon, and, with a quick motion, drew out the flint. He threw the gun
on the ground, and walked back to his seat.
Two of the guards came running forward. They had not been drinking,
and one of them ordered the loafers away. This did not strike them
amiss. They started off, trying to reload as they walked, evidently
not missing the flint.
The maid came again to the doorway, and asked timidly:--
"Is there danger for you, M'sieu? Will they come back?"
"No. It is merely a lot of drunken youths. They have probably
forgotten by now. Can you sleep, Mademoiselle?--have you tried?"
"No, I--I fear that I could not."
"It would be well to make the effort," he said gently, looking over
his shoulder at her as she leaned against the doorpost. "We do not
know what may happen. At any rate, even if you escape, you will need
all your strength on the morrow. A fallen captain may not command,
Mademoiselle, but--"
"If it is your command, M'sieu, I will try. Good night."
There was a long stillness, broken only by the distant noises of the
dance.
"You, too, will sleep, M'sieu?" said Father Claude. "I will watch."
"No, no, Father."
"I beg it of you. At the least you will let me divide the night with
you?"
"We shall see, we shall see. There is much to be said before either of
us closes his eyes. Hello, here is a runner."
An Indian was loping up the path. He turned in toward the hut.
"Quiet," said the priest. "It is Tegakwita."
The warrior had run a long way. He was breathing deeply, and the sweat
stood out on his face and caught the shine of the firelight.
"My brother has been far," said Menard, rising.
"The White Chief is not surprised? He heard the word of Tegakwita,
that he would return before another sun. He has indeed been far. He
has followed the track of the forest wolf that stole the child of the
Onondagas. He has found the bold, the brave white warrior, who stole
away in the night, robbing Tegakwita of what is dearer to him than the
beating of his heart."
The maid stood again in the doorway, resting a hand on the post, and
leaning forward with startled eyes.
"He has found--he has found him--" she faltered.
The Indian did not look at her. He drew something from the breast of
his shirt, and threw it on the ground at Menard's feet. Then, with
broken-hearted dignity, he strode away and disappeared in the night.
Father Claude stooped, and picked up the object. Dimly in the
firelight they could see it,--two warm human scalps, the one of brown
hair knotted to the other of black. Menard took them in his hand.
"Poor boy!" he said, over and over. "Poor boy!"
He looked toward the door, but the maid had gone inside.