THE VOICE OF THE GREAT MOUNTAIN.
There was no lack of interest now in the council. The weariness left
the maid's eyes as she followed the speeches that came in rapid
succession. There was still the disagreement, the confusion of a dozen
different views and demands; but the speech of the Long Arrow had
pointed the discussion, it had set up an opinion to be either defended
or attacked.
"Will the Big Throat speak now?" asked Mademoiselle, leaning close to
Menard.
"I hardly think so. I don't know what will come next."
"When will you speak, M'sieu?"
"Not until word from the Big Throat. It would be a breach of
courtesy."
One warrior, a member of the Beaver family, and probably a blood
relative of the Beaver who had been killed in the fight of the
morning, took advantage of the pause to speak savagely for war and
vengeance. He counted those who had fallen since the sun rose, and
appealed to their families to destroy the man who had killed them. He
was not a chief, but his fiery speech aroused a murmur of approval
from scattered groups of the spectators. This sympathy from those
about him, with the anger which was steadily fed by his own hot words,
gradually drove from his mind the observance of etiquette which was so
large a part of an important council. Still speaking, he left his
place, and walking slowly between two of the fires and across the
circle, paused before Menard.
"The dog whom we fed and grew has turned against its masters, as the
dogs of your own lodges, my brothers, will bite the hand that pats
their heads. It has hung about outside of the Great Lodge to kill the
hunter who sees no danger ahead. And now, when this dog is caught, and
tied at your door, would not my brothers bring him to the end of all
evil beasts?" As he finished, he made a gesture of bitter contempt and
kicked Menard.
A shout went up, and voices clamoured, protesting, denouncing,
exulting. The Captain's eyes flashed fire. It was not for a second
that he hesitated. Weakness, to an Indian, is the last, the greatest
fault. If he should take this insult, it would end forever not only
his own chance of escape, with the maid and the priest, but all hope
of safety for the Governor's column. He sprang to his feet before the
Indian, whose arm was still stretched out in the gesture, and with two
quick blows knocked him clear of his feet, and then kicked him into
the fire.
A dozen hands dragged the warrior from the fire and stamped out a
blaze that had started in the fringe of one legging. Every man in the
house was on his feet, shouting and screaming. Menard stood with his
hands at his side, smiling, with the same look of scorn he had worn in
the morning when they led him to the torture. Father Claude drew
closer to the maid, and the two sat without moving. Then above the
uproar rose the voice of the Big Throat; and slowly the noise died
away. The chief stepped to the centre of the circle, but before he
could speak Menard had reached his side, and motioned to him to be
silent.
"My brothers," he said, looking straight at the fallen warrior, who
was scrambling to his feet,--"my brothers, the Big Buffalo is sorry
that the Onondagas have among them a fool who thinks himself a
warrior. The Big Buffalo is not here to fight fools. He is here to
talk to chiefs. He is glad that the fool speaks only for himself and
not for the brave men of the Long House." He walked deliberately back
and resumed his seat by the maid.
[Illustration: "Menard stood ... smiling with the same look of scorn he
had worn ... when they led him to the torture."]
"Courage, Mademoiselle," he said close to her ear. "It is all right."
"What will they do, M'sieu?"
"Nothing. I have won. Wait--the Big Throat is speaking."
One by one the warriors fell back to their seats. Some were muttering,
some were smiling; but all were subdued. The Big Throat's voice was
calm and firm.
"The Big Buffalo has spoken well. The word of a fool is not the word
of the Long House. The White Chief comes to give us the voice of
Onontio, and we will listen."
He turned toward Menard, and then resumed his seat.
The Captain rose, and looked about the circle. The chiefs were
motionless. Even the Long Arrow, now that his outburst was past,
closed his lips over the stem of his pipe and gazed at the smoke.
Father Claude drew forward the bundle and opened it, the maid helping.
Some of the boys behind them crowded closer to see the presents.
Menard spoke slowly and quietly. The rustling and whispering in the
outer circle died away, so that every word was distinct.
"When the Five Nations have given their word to another nation, it has
not been necessary to sign a paper; it has not been necessary to keep
a record. The Long Arrow has said that the Iroquois do not forget. He
is right. The words that have gone out from the councils have never
been forgotten. I see here, in this council, the faces of warriors who
have grown old in serving their people, of chiefs who are bent and
wrinkled with the cares of many generations. I see in the eyes of my
brothers that they have not forgotten the Onontio, who went away to
his greater chief only five seasons ago. They have seen this Onontio
in war and peace. They have listened to his silver tongue in the
council. They have called themselves his children, and have known that
he was a wise and kind father. They remember the promises they made
him. But the Senecas did not remember. The Seneca has no ears; he has
a hole in his head, and the words of his father have passed through.
The Senecas promised Onontio that they would not take the white man's
beaver. But when the English came to their lodges and whispered in
their ears, the hole was stopped. The English whispered of brandy and
guns and powder and hatchets and knives. They told the Senecas that
these things should be given to them if they would steal the beaver.
The English are cowards--they sent the Senecas to do what they were
afraid to do. And then the hole in the Seneca's head was stopped--the
Seneca who had forgotten the words of Onontio remembered the words of
the English.
"My brothers of the Long House had not forgotten the promises they had
given Onontio. When the Seneca chiefs called for aid in stealing the
beaver, my brothers were wise and said no. The Onondagas and Cayugas
and Oneidas and Mohawks were loyal--they kept their promise, and
Onontio has not forgotten; he will not forget.
"This is what the Great Mountain would say to you, my brothers: You
have been faithful to your word, and he is pleased. He knows that the
Onondagas are his children. And he knows why the Senecas left their
villages and fields to plunder his white children. It was for the
skins of the beaver, which the white braves had taken from their own
forests and would bring in their canoes down the Ottawa to trade at
the white man's villages. He knows, my brothers, that the Senecas had
tired of their promises, and now would steal the beaver and sell it to
the English. What comes to the boy when he climbs the tree to steal
the honey which the bees have gathered and taken to their home? Is he
not stung and bitten until he cries that he will not disturb the bees
again? The Senecas have tried to take that which is to the white man
as the honey is to the bee; and they too must be stung and bitten
until they have learned that the Great Mountain will always protect
those who deserve his aid. He has sent you a comb from the shell of
the great sea-tortoise, more precious than a thousand wampum shells,
to tell you that as the sea-monster pursues its enemies, so will he
pursue those who cannot keep their promises--who lie to him."
Father Claude handed him the comb, and he laid it before the Big
Throat. It was evident that he had been closely followed, and he
started on his second word with more vigour.
"Your chiefs have spoken to-day of the storm cloud that has swept down
from the north; your runners have told you that it is not a cloud, but
an army, that has come up the great river and across the lake of
Frontenac to the country of the Senecas. Do my brothers know what a
great army follows their White Father when he sets out to punish his
children? More than twenty score of trained warriors are in this war
party, and every warrior carries a musket; to-night they are marching
on the Seneca villages. They will destroy those villages as a brave
would destroy a nest of hornets in his lodge. Not one lodge will be
left standing, not one stalk of corn.
"The Oneidas and Onondagas and Cayugas talk of their cornfields. But
even the Cayugas need have no fear. For Onontio is a wise and just
father; he punishes only those that offend him. The Senecas have
broken their promises, and the Senecas must be punished, but the other
nations are still the children of the Great Mountain, and his hand is
over them. The Big Buffalo has come from the Great Mountain to tell
you that he will not harm the Cayugas; their fields and lodges are
safe."
There was a stir at this, and then quiet, as the spectators settled
back to hear the rest of Menard's speech. Here was a captive who spoke
as boldly as their own chiefs, who commanded their attention as a
present bearer from the White Chief. And they knew, all of them, from
the way in which he was choosing his words, coolly ignoring the more
important subjects until he should be ready to deal with them, that he
spoke with authority. He knew his auditors, and he let them see that
he knew them.
"The Senecas have listened to the English. What do they expect from
them? Do they think that the English wish to help them? Do they look
for wealth and support from the English? My brothers of the Long House
know better. They have seen the English hide from the anger of the
Great Mountain. They have seen the iron hand of New France reach out
across the northern country, and along the shores of the great lakes,
and down the Father of Waters in the far west, while the English were
clinging to their little strip of land on the edge of the sea. My
brothers know who is strong and who is weak. Never have the fields of
the Five Nations been so rich and so large. No wars have disturbed
them. They have grown and prospered. Do the Senecas think it is the
English who have made them great? No--the Senecas are not fools. They
know that the Great Mountain has driven away their enemies and given
them peace and plenty. My brothers of the Long House remembered this
when the Senecas came to them and asked for aid in stealing the
beaver. They stopped their ears; they knew that Onontio was their
father, and that they must be faithful to him if they wished to have
plenty in their lodges.
"Onontio is a patient father. Let the Senecas repent, and he will
forgive them. Let them bury the hatchet, and he will forgive them. Let
them be satisfied with peace and honest trade, and he will buy their
furs, and give them fair payment. And then their cornfields shall grow
so large that a fleet runner cannot pass around them in half a moon.
They shall have no more famine. Their pouches shall be full of powder,
their muskets new and bright. Their women shall have warm clothing and
many beads. Nowhere shall there be such prosperous nations as here
among the Iroquois. If the Senecas have broken their pledges and have
not repented, they must be punished. But the Cayugas and Onondagas and
Oneidas and Mohawks have not broken their pledges. The Great Mountain
has sent the Big Buffalo to tell them that he has seen that they are
loyal, and he is pleased. He knows that they are wise. If the
Onondagas have a grievance, he will not forget it, and if they ask for
vengeance he will hear them. The Great Mountain knows that the
Onondagas are his children, that they will not make war upon their
father. He sends this coat of seal fur that the hearts of the Cayugas
and Onondagas and Oneidas and Mohawks may be kept warm, and to tell
them that he loves them and will protect them."
The maid's eyes sparkled with excitement.
"I wish they would speak, or laugh, or do something," she whispered to
Father Claude, "Are they not interested? They hardly seem to hear
him."
The priest looked at her gravely.
"Yes," he replied, "they are listening."
The time had come to speak of La Grange. The Captain had been steadily
leading up to this moment. He had tried to show the Indians that they
had no complaint, no cause for war, unless it was the one incident at
Fort Frontenac. He knew that the chiefs not only understood his
argument, but that they were quietly waiting for him to approach this
real cause of trouble, and were probably curious to see how he would
meet it. The mind of the Iroquois, when in the council, separated from
the heat and emotion of the dance, the hunt, the war-path, was
remarkably keen. Menard felt sure that if he could present his case
logically and firmly, it would appeal to most of the chief and older
warriors. Then the maid came into his thoughts, and he knew, though he
did not look down, that she was gazing up at him and waiting. He
hesitated for a moment longer. The chiefs, too, were waiting. The Long
House was hushed:--three hundred faces were looking at him through the
twisting, curling smoke that blurred the scene into an unreal picture.
Yes, the time had come to speak of La Grange; and he spoke the first
words hurriedly, stepping half-unconsciously farther from the maid.
There was a part of the true story of the capture which he did not
tell,--the Governor's part. For the rest, it was all there, every word
about La Grange and his treacherous act coming out almost brutally.
"Your speakers have told you of the hunting party that was taken into
the stone house, and put into chains, and sent away to be slaves to
the Chief-Across-the-Water. There is a chief at the stone house whom
you have seen fighting bravely in many a battle. He is a bold warrior;
none is so quick or so tireless as Captain la Grange. But he has a
devil in his heart. The bad medicine of white man and redman, the
fire-water, is always close to him, ready to whisper to him and guide
him. It was not the father at Quebec that broke the faith with the
Onondagas. It was not the Big Buffalo. If the Big Buffalo could so
forget his brothers of the Onondaga lodges, he would not have come
back to the Long House to tell them of the sorrow of the Great
Mountain. My brothers have seen the Big Buffalo in war and peace--they
know that he would not do this.
"The devil was in Captain la Grange's heart. He captured my brothers.
He told the Great Mountain that it was a war party, that he had taken
them prisoners fairly. He lied to the Great Mountain. When the Great
Mountain asked the Big Buffalo to bring the prisoners to his great
village on the river, the Big Buffalo could not say, 'No, I am no
longer your son!' When the Great Mountain commands, the Big Buffalo
obeys. With sorrow in his heart he did as his father told him."
Menard was struggling to put the maid out of his thoughts, to keep in
view only the safety of the column and the welfare of New France. And
as the words came rapidly to his lips and fell upon the ears of that
silent audience, he began to feel that they believed him.
"My brothers," he said, with more feeling than they knew, "it is five
seasons since I left your village for the land of the white man. In
that time you have had no thought that I was not indeed your brother,
the son of your chief. You have known other Frenchmen. Father Claude,
who sits by my side; Father Jean de Lamberville, who has given his
many years to save you for the great white man's Manitou; Major
d'Orvilliers, who has never failed to give food and shelter to the
starving hunter at his great stone house,--I could name a hundred
others. You know that these are honest, that what they promise will be
done. But in every village is a fool, in every family is one who is
weak and cannot earn a name on the hunt. You have a warrior in this
house who to-day raised his hand against a visitor in the great
council. My brothers,--it is with sadness that I say it,--not all the
white men are true warriors. You are wise chiefs and brave warriors;
you know that because one man is a dog, it is not so with all his
nation. The Great Mountain sends me to you, and I speak in his voice.
I tell you that Captain la Grange is a dog, that he has broken the
faith of the white man and the redman, that the father at Quebec and
the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, who are so quick to punish their red
children, will also punish the white. The white men are good. They
love the Onondagas. And if any white man breaks the faith, he shall be
punished."
His voice had risen, and he was speaking in a glow that seemed to drop
a spark into each listening heart. He knew now that they believed. He
turned abruptly for the present. Father Claude was so absorbed in
following the speech, and in watching the maid, who sat with flushed
cheeks and lowered eyes, that he was not ready, and Menard stooped and
took the book. He could not avoid seeing the maid, when he looked
down; and the priest felt a sudden pain in his own heart to see the
look of utter weariness that came into the Captain's eyes.
Menard turned the leaves of the book for a moment, as if to collect
himself, and then held it open so that the Indians could see the
bright pictures. There was a craning of necks in the outer circles.
"In these picture writings is told the story of the 'Ceremonies of the
Mass applied to the Passion of Our Lord,'" he said slowly. "And our
Lord is your Great Spirit. It brings you a message; it tells you that
the white man is a good man, who punishes his own son as sternly as
his red child."
The present pleased the Big Throat. He would not let his curiosity
appear in the council, but he dropped the book so that it fell open,
seemingly by accident, and his eyes strayed to it now and then during
the last word of the speech. Menard did not hesitate again.
"I have told my Onondaga brothers that this white dog shall be
punished," he said. "When this word is given in your council in the
voice of Onontio, it is a word that cannot be broken. Wind is not
strong enough, thunder is not loud enough, waves are not fierce
enough, snows are not cold enough, powder is not swift enough to break
it." The words came swiftly from his lips. Calm old chiefs leaned
forward that they might catch every syllable. Eyes were brighter with
interest. The Long Arrow, thinking of his son and fearing lest the man
who killed him should slip from his grasp, grew troubled and more
stern. At last Menard turned, and taking the portrait from the
priest's hands held it up, slowly turning it so that all could see it
in the uncertain firelight. At first they were puzzled and surprised;
then a murmur of recognition ran from lip to lip.
"You know this maid," Menard was saying, "this maid who to all who
love the Iroquois, to all who love the church, the Great Spirit, is a
saint. Her spirit has been for many moons in the happy hunting ground.
The snow has lain cold and heavy on her grave. The night bird has sung
her beauty in the empty forest. Catherine Outasoren has come back from
the land where the corn is always growing, where the snows can never
fall; she has come back to bear you the word of the Great Mountain.
She has come to tell you that the dog who broke the oath of the white
man to the Onondagas must suffer. This is the pledge of the Great
Mountain."
He stopped abruptly, and stood looking with flashing eyes at the
circle of chiefs. There was silence for a moment, then a murmur that
rapidly rose and swelled into the loud chatter of many voices. Menard
laid the portrait at the feet of the Big Throat, and took his seat at
the side of the maid,--but he did not look at her nor she at him.
Father Claude sat patiently waiting.
There was low talk among the chiefs. Then a warrior came and led the
captives out of doors, through a long passage that opened between two
rows of crowding Indians. The night was clear, and the air was sweet
to their nostrils. They walked slowly down the path. A group of young
braves kept within a few rods.
"It must be late," said Menard, in a weak effort to break the
silence.
"Yes," replied Father Claude.
"I suppose we had better go back to our hut?"
"Yes," said the priest again. But the maid was silent.
They sat on the grass plot before the door, none of them having any
words that fitted the moment. Menard brought out a blanket and spread
it on the ground, that the maid need not touch the dew-laden grass.