A NIGHT COUNCIL.
The night crept by, as had the day, wearily.
The two men sat in the doorway or walked slowly back and forth across
the front of the hut, saying little. The Captain was calling to mind
every incident of their capture, and of the original trouble between
La Grange and the hunting party. He went over the conversation with
Major Provost at Quebec word by word, until he felt sure in his
authority as the Governor's representative; although the written
orders in the leather bag that hung from his neck were concerned only
with his duties in preparing Fort Frontenac for the advancing
column,--duties that he had not fulfilled.
A plan was forming in his mind which would make strong demands on the
good faith of Major Provost and the Governor. He knew, as every old
soldier knows, that governments and rulers are thankless, that even
written authority is none too binding, if to make it good should
inconvenience those who so easily give it. He knew further that if he
should succeed now in staying the Onondagas and Cayugas by pledges
which, perchance, it might not please Governor Denonville to observe,
the last frail ties that held the Iroquois to the French would be
broken, and England would reign from the Hudson to the river of the
Illinois. And he sighed, as he had sighed many times before, for the
old days under Frontenac, under the only Governor of New France who
could hold these slippery redskins to their obligations.
"Father," he said finally, "I begin to see a way."
"The Big Throat?"
"He must help, though to tell the truth I fear that he will be of
little service. He may come in time to give us a stay; but, chief
though he is, he will hardly dare overrule the Long Arrow on a matter
so personal as this."
"What is the Long Arrow's family--the Beaver?"
"Yes."
"But, M'sieu, that is the least of the eight families. If it were the
Tortoise or the Bear against us, we should have greater cause for
fear."
"True, Father, but to each family belongs its own quarrels, its own
revenge. If the Big Throat should interfere too deeply, it would anger
the other small families, who might fear the same treatment at some
other time. And with Beaver, Snipe, Deer, and Potato united against
us,--well, it is a simple enough problem."
They were walking by the door, and Menard, as he spoke, sat on the
stone which he had rolled there in the afternoon. The priest stood
before him.
"I hope we may succeed, my son. I have seen this anger before, and it
has always ended in the one way."
"Of course," the Captain replied, "it does depend on the Big Throat.
He must reach here in time."
"God grant that he may!"
"In that case, Father, I look for a delay. Unless his heart has
hardened rapidly, he still thinks of me. Together we will go to him,
and ask a hearing in the war council."
"Oratory will not release us, I fear, M'sieu."
"We shall not ask to be released, Father. Don't you understand? It is
more than that we shall demand,--it is peace with New France, the
safety of the column--"
The priest's eyes lighted. "Do you think, M'sieu--"
"We can do it. They have not heard all the truth. They do not want a
long war which will kill their braves and destroy their homes and
their corn. It is this attack on the Senecas that has drawn them
out."
"You will tell them that the Governor fights only the Senecas?"
"More than that. The La Grange affair has stirred them up. It has
weakened their faith in the Governor,--it has as good as undone all
the work of twenty years past. Our only hope is to reestablish that
faith."
"I hope that we may," said the priest, slowly. "But they have reached
a state now where words alone will hardly suffice. I have tried it,
M'sieu. Since we came, I have talked and reasoned with them."
"Well, Father, I am going to try it. The question is, will the
Governor make good what I shall have to promise? It may be that he
will. If not,--then my life will not be worth a box of tinder if I
stray a league from Quebec without a guard." He looked down at the
daisy on his coat. "But the maid will be safe, Father. She will be
safe."
"I do not believe that they would harm her, even as it is."
"No, I trust not--I trust not. But we are here, and she is here; and
not until I know that her journey is over will my eyes close easily at
night."
"But your plan, M'sieu,--you have not told me."
"Ah, I thought you understood. Did you know about the capture at
Frontenac when it happened? No? It was like this. The Governor sent
word, with the orders that came up to the fort in May, that at the
first sign of trouble or disturbance with the Indians there,
d'Orvilliers should seize a few score of them and send them down
the river in chains. It would be an example, he said. I was
awaiting orders,--I had just returned from the Huron Country and
Michillimackinac,--and d'Orvilliers called me to his rooms and
showed me the order. 'Now,' he said, 'who in the devil is meddling
at Quebec?' I did not know; I do not know yet. But there was the
order. He turned it over to La Grange, with instructions to wait until
some offence should give him an excuse."
"I know the rest, M'sieu."
"Yes, yes. You have heard a dozen times,--how La Grange was drinking,
and how he lied to a peaceful hunting party, and drugged them, and
brained one poor devil with his own sword. And what could we do,
Father? Right or wrong, the capture was made. It was too late to
release them, for the harm was done. If d'Orvilliers had refused to
carry out his orders and send them to Quebec, it would have cost him
his commission."
"And you, M'sieu?"
"I was the only officer on detached service at the Fort. D'Orvilliers
could not look me in the face when he ordered me to take them."
"You will tell them this?"
"This? Yes, and more. I will pledge the honour of New France that La
Grange shall suffer. The man who has betrayed the Onondagas must be
punished before we can have their good faith. Don't you understand?"
Father Claude walked away a few steps, and then back, his hands
clasped before him.
"Don't you understand, Father? If a wrong has been done an Iroquois,
it is revenge that will appease him. Very well. Captain la Grange has
wronged them; let them have their revenge."
"Is that the right view, M'sieu?"
"Not for us, Father,--for you and me. To us it is simple justice. But
justice,--that is not the word with which to reach an Indian."
"But it may be that Captain la Grange is in favour at Quebec. What
then?"
"You do not seem to understand me yet, Father." Menard spoke slowly
and calmly. "This is not my quarrel. I can take what my life brings,
and thank your God, the while, that I have life at all. But if by one
foolish act the Iroquois are to be lost to France, while I have the
word on my tongue that will set all right, am I,--well, would you have
me such a soldier?"
The priest was looking through the leaves at the firelight. For once
he seemed to have nothing to offer.
"It will not be easy, Father; but when was a soldier's work easy?
First I must make these Indians believe me,--and you know how hard
that will be. Then I must convince Governor Denonville that this is
his only course; and that will be still harder. Or, if they will not
release me, you will be my messenger, Father, and take the word. I
will stay here until La Grange has got his dues."
"Let us suppose," said the priest,--"let us suppose that you did not
do this, that you did not take this course against Captain la Grange
which will leave him a marked man to the Iroquois, even if the
Governor should do nothing."
"Then," said Menard, "the rear-guard at La Famine will be butchered,
and the army of New France will be cut to pieces. That is all."
"You are sure of this?"
"It points that way, Father."
"Then let us take another case. Suppose that you succeed at the
council, that you are released. Then if the Governor should disclaim
responsibility, should--"
"Then, Father, I will go to La Grange and make him fight me. I mean to
pledge my word to these chiefs. You know what that means."
"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He seemed puzzled and unsettled by
some thought that held his mind. He walked slowly about, looking at
the ground. Menard, too, was restless. He rose from the stone and
tossed away the pebbles that had supported the cup, one at a time.
"They are singing again," he said, listening to the droning chant that
came indistinctly through the dark. "One would think they would long
ago have been too drunk to stand. How some of these recruits the King
sends over to us would envy them their stomachs."
The priest made no reply. He did not understand the impulse that led
the Captain to speak irrelevantly at such a moment.
"I suppose the doctors are dancing now," Menard continued. "It may be
that they will come here. If they do, we shall have a night of it."
"We will hope not, M'sieu."
"If they should, Father,--well, it is hard to know just what to do."
"You were thinking--?"
"Oh, I was wondering. If they come here, and let their wild talk run
away with them, it might be well to fight them off until morning.
Maybe we could do it."
"Yes, it might seem best."
"But if--if the Big Throat should not come, or should have changed,
then it would have been better that I had submitted."
"You are thinking of me, my son. You must not. I will not leave you to
go without a struggle. I can fight, if needs be, as well as you. I
will do my part."
"It is not that, Father. But if we fight, and the Big Throat does not
come,--there is the maid. They would not spare her then."
The priest looked at the Captain, and in the dim, uncertain light he
saw something of the thought that lay behind those wearied eyes.
"True," he said; "true."
Menard walked up and down, a half-dozen steps forward, a half-dozen
back, without a glance at the priest, who watched him closely.
Suddenly he turned, and the words that were in his mind slipped
unguarded from his tongue, low and stern:--
"If they come, Father,--if they harm her,--God! if they even wake her,
I will kill them."
Father Claude looked at him, but said nothing. They walked together up
and down; then, as if weary, they sat again by the door.
"There are some things which I could not talk over with you," said the
priest, finally. "It was best that I should not. And now I hardly know
what is the right thing for me to do, or to say."
"What troubles you?"
"When you are cooler, it will come to you. For to-night,--until our
last moment of choice,--I must ask one favour, M'sieu. You will not
decide on this course until it comes to the end. You will think of
other ways; you will--"
"What else have I been doing, Father? There is no other way."
"But you will not decide yet?"
"No. We need not, to-night."
The priest seemed relieved.
"M'sieu," came in a low voice from the darkness within the hut, "may I
not sit with you?"
"You are awake, Mademoiselle? You have not been sleeping?"
"No, I could not. I--I have not heard you, M'sieu,--I have not
listened. But I wanted to very much. I have only my thoughts, and they
are not the best of company to-night."
"Come." Menard rose and got one of the priest's blankets, folding it
and laying it on the ground against the wall. "I fear that we may be
no better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the service
of Mademoiselle."
She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap.
Menard was half in the shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on her
face. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the night
had brought,--fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight;
but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had not
forgotten to catch up the masses of hair that were struggling to be
free; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that the
hardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indian
shelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat without
talking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame that
now and then reached above the huts.
"How strange their song is, M'sieu."
"Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would see
that as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing,
another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting,
and do not recover for hours."
"I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas--there were but a few of
them--had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amusement."
"They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when
there is no hunt to occupy them."
Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away,
leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about with
bowed head.
"The Father is sad, M'sieu."
"Yes. But it is not for himself."
"Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?"
"I think he will come."
The maid looked down at her clasped hands. Menard watched her,--the
firelight was dancing on her face and hair,--and again the danger
seemed to slip away, the chant and the fire to be a part of some
mad dream that had carried him in a second from Quebec to this
deep-shadowed spot, and had set this maid before him.
"You are wearing the daisy, Mademoiselle."
She looked up, half-startled at the change in his voice. Then her eyes
dropped again.
"See," he continued, "so am I. Is it not strange that we should be
here, you and I. And yet, when I first saw you, I thought--"
"You thought, M'sieu?"
Menard laughed gently. "I could not tell you, without telling you what
I think now, and that would--be--"
He spoke half playfully, and waited; but she did not reply.
"I do not know what it is that has come to me. It is not like me. Or
it may be that the soldier, all these years, has not been me. Would it
not be strange if I were but now to find myself,--or if you were to
find me, Mademoiselle? If it is true, if this is what I have waited so
long to find, it would be many years before I could repay you for
bringing it to me,--it would be a long lifetime."
Again he waited, and still she was silent. Then he talked on, as madly
now as on the night of their capture, when he had fought, shouting,
musket and knife in hand, at the water's edge. But this was another
madness.
"It is such a simple thing. Until you came out here under the trees my
mind was racked with the troubles about us. But now you are here, and
I do not care,--no, not if this were to be my last night, if to-morrow
they should--" She made a nervous gesture, but he went on.
"You see it is you, Mademoiselle, who come into my life, and then all
the rest goes out."
"Don't," she said brokenly. "Don't."
Father Claude came slowly toward them.
"My child," he said, "if you are not too wearied, I wish to talk with
you."
She rose with an air of relief and joined him. Menard watched them,
puzzled. He could hear the priest speaking in low, even tones; and
then the maid's voice, deep with emotion. Finally they came back, and
she went hurriedly into the hut without a glance at the soldier, who
had risen and stood by the door.
"Come, M'sieu, let us walk."
Menard looked at him in surprise, but walked with him.
"It is about the speech to the council--and Captain la Grange. It may
be that you are right, M'sieu."
"Right? I do not understand."
"It was but a moment ago that we talked of it."
"Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?"
"You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong.
If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully.
There is none too much time."
"Yes," said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest's
arm. "I did not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool I
am!"
"No, no, M'sieu."
"You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not come
to me. It will pain her."
"Yes," said Father Claude, slowly, "it will pain her. But I have been
thinking. I fear that you are right. It has passed beyond the simple
matter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of.
You have said that it was Captain la Grange's treachery that first
angered the Onondagas. We must lay this before them. If his punishment
will satisfy them, will save the rear-guard, why then, my son, it is
our duty."
They paced back and forth in silence. Menard's heavy breathing and his
quick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the struggle
that was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said:--
"I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself to
this act if--if she--"
"No, M'sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And she
has begged me to ask you not to speak with her. She has a brave heart,
but she cannot see you now."
"She asked you,--" said the Captain, slowly. "She asked you--I cannot
think. I do not know what to say."
The priest quietly walked back to the stone by the door, and left the
soldier to fight out the battle alone. It was half an hour before he
came back and stood before Father Claude.
"Well, M'sieu?"
Menard spoke shortly, "Yes, Father, you are right."
That was all, but it told the priest that the matter had been finally
settled. He had seen the look in the Captain's eyes when the truth had
come to him; and he knew now what he had not dreamed before, that the
soldier's heart had gone out to this maid, and now he must set his
hand against one of her own blood. The Father knew that he would do
it, would fight La Grange to the end. A word was trembling on his
tongue, but as he looked at the seamed face before him, he could not
bring himself to add a deeper sorrow to that already stamped there.
"You must help me with the speech, Father. My wits are not at their
best, I fear."
"Willingly, M'sieu. And the presents,--we must think of that."
"True. We have not the wampum collars. It must be something of great
value that will take their place. You know how much tradition means to
these people. Of course I have nothing. But you--you have your bale.
And Mademoiselle--together you should find something."
"I fear that I have little. My blankets and my altar they would not
value. One moment--" He stepped to the door, and spoke softly,
"Mademoiselle."
"Yes, Father." She stood in the doorway, wearily. It was plain that
she had been weeping, but she was not ashamed.
"We shall need your help, Mademoiselle. Anything in your bale that
would please the chiefs must be used."
She was puzzled.
"It is the custom," continued the priest, "at every council. To the
Indians a promise is not given, a statement is not true, a treaty is
not binding, unless there is a present for each clause. We have much
at stake, and we must give what we have."
"Certainly, Father."
She stepped back into the darkness, and they could hear her dragging
the bundle. Menard sprang to help.
"Mademoiselle, where are you?"
"Here, M'sieu."
He walked toward the sound with his hands spread before him. One hand
rested on her shoulder, where she stooped over the bale. She did not
shrink from his touch. For a moment he stood, struggling with a mad
impulse to take her slender figure in his arms, to hold her where a
thousand Indians could not harm her save by taking his own strong
life; to tell her what made this moment more to him than all the stern
years of the past. It may be that she understood, for she was
motionless, almost breathless. But in a moment he was himself.
"I will take it," he said.
He stooped, took up the bundle, and carried it outside. She followed
to the doorway.
"You will look, Mademoiselle."
She nodded, and knelt by the bundle, while the two men waited.
"There is little here, M'sieu. I brought only what was necessary. Here
is a comb. Would that please them?"
She reached back to them, holding out a high tortoise-shell comb. They
took it and examined it.
"It is beautiful," said Menard.
"Yes; my mother gave it to me."
"Perhaps, Mademoiselle,--perhaps there is something else, something
that would do as well."
"How many should you have, M'sieu?"
"Five, I had planned. There will be five words in the speech."
"Words?" she repeated.
"To the Iroquois each argument is a 'word.'"
"I have almost nothing else, not even clothing of value. Wait--here is
a small coat of seal."
"And you, Father?" asked Menard.
"I have a book with highly coloured pictures, M'sieu,--'The Ceremonies
of the Mass applied to the Passion of Our Lord.'"
"Splendid! Have you nothing else?"
"I fear not."
Menard turned to the maid, who was still on her knees by the open
bundle, looking up at them.
"I am afraid that we must take your coat and the comb," he said. "I am
sorry."
She answered in a low tone, but firmly: "You know, M'sieu, that it
would hurt me to do nothing. It hurts me to do so little."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle. Well, Father, we must use our wits. It may
be that four words will be enough, but I cannot use fewer. We have but
three presents."
"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He walked slowly by them, and about
in a circle, repeating the word. The maid leaned back and watched him,
wondering. He paused before the Captain and seemed about to speak.
Then abruptly he went into the hut, and they could hear him moving
within. Menard and the maid looked at each other, the soldier smiling
quietly. He understood.
Father Claude came out holding the portrait of Catharine, the Lily of
the Onondagas, in his hands.
"It may be that this could be used for the fourth present," he said.
Menard took it without a word, and laid it on the ground by the fur
coat. The maid looked at it curiously.
"Oh, it is a picture," she said.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," the Captain replied. "It is the portrait of an
Onondaga maiden who is to them, and to the French, almost a saint.
They will prize this above all else."
The maid raised it, and looked at the strangely clad figure. Father
Claude quietly walked away, but Menard went after and gripped his
hand.