AT THE LONG LAKE.
Menard again dropped to sleep. When the day had nearly reached its
middle, he was aroused by two warriors, who pulled him roughly to his
feet. The band had evidently been astir for some moments. A few braves
were extinguishing the fire with clumps of sod, while the others
packed in their blankets what had been left from the morning meal, or
looked to the spots of rust which the damp had brought to knives and
muskets. The Long Arrow came over to inspect the thongs that held
Menard's wrists; he had not forgotten his attack on his guards on the
morning of the torture. And with a precaution that brought a half
smile to the prisoner's face, he posted a stout warrior on each side,
in addition to those before and behind. Then they set out over the
hills, wading through a great tumbling meadow where their feet sank
deep into the green and yellow and white that June had spread over the
open lands of the Iroquois. Overhead the sky, though still clouded,
was breaking, giving little glimpses of clear blue.
As they neared the crest of the first hill, the Captain looked back
over his shoulder. The sun had at last broken through to the earth,
and a great band of yellow light was moving swiftly across the valley.
Before it, all the ground was sombre in its dark green and its heavy
moisture; behind lay a stretch of golden sunshine, rounding over the
farther hills in great billows of grass and flowers and clustering
trees, glistening with dew and glowing with the young health of the
summer. Up the hillside came the sunlight; and then in a moment it had
passed them, and the air was warm and sweet.
Menard looked at the sun and then back across the valley to get his
direction. He saw that the party was moving a little to the south of
west. This line of march should take them through the Cayuga
country,--a natural move on the part of the Long Arrow, for the
Cayugas were closer to the scene of the fighting than the Onondagas,
and therefore would be less likely to interfere with the persecution
of a Frenchman, particularly before their chiefs should return from
the council.
Late in the afternoon they came to a slow-moving stream, the outlet of
an inland lake. By the basin-shape of the end of the lake, he
recognized it as one that lay directly between Onondaga and the Long
Lake of the Cayugas. On the bank of the little river, under the matted
foliage, the chief signalled a halt, and the warriors threw themselves
on the ground. Menard lay at the foot of a beech whose roots dipped in
the water, and for the hundredth time since the sun had risen he cast
about for some chance at escape. The thongs about his wrists were tied
by skilful hands. He tried to reach the knot with his fingers, but
could not. His guards were alert to every motion; they lay on either
side, and he could not lift his eyes without meeting the sullen glance
of one or the other. He was about ready to submit, trusting to his
wits to seize the first opportunity that should come; for after all,
to worry would strain his nerves, and now, if at any time, his nerves
and his strength were needed. When at last he reached this point of
view, he lay back on the weed-grown earth and went to sleep.
An hour later he was aroused for another start. Night came while they
were on the way, but they pushed steadily forward, and within a few
hours they reached the Long Lake. Instead of stopping, however, the
Long Arrow headed to the south along the bank of the lake. For a space
it was hard going through the interwoven bushes and briers that tore
even Menard's tough skin. The moon was in the sky, and here and there
he caught glimpses of the lake lying still and bright. They saw no
signs of life save for the flitting bats, and the owls that called
weirdly through the reaches of the forest. After another hour they
found a trail which led them down close to the water, and at last to a
half-cleared space, rank and wild with weed and thistle, and with
rotting heaps where lay the trunks of trees, felled a generation
earlier. Scattered about the outer edge of the clearing, close to the
circle of trees, were a few bark huts, with roofs sagging and doors
agape. One or two were rivalled in height by the weeds that choked
their windows. As Menard stood between his guards under the last tree
on the trail, looking at the deserted village where the frightened
bats rose and wheeled, and the moonlight streamed on broken roofs, he
began to understand. The Long Arrow had found a place where he could
carry out his vengeance undisturbed.
Other forms had risen from the weeds to greet the party. Looking more
closely, Menard saw that a group of Indians were dragging logs for a
fire. Evidently this was a rendezvous for two or more bands. He tried
to count the dim forms, and found them somewhat less than a score in
all. Perhaps the Long Arrow had found it not easy to raise a large
party to defy the will of the council concerning the White Chief; but
he had enough, and already the brandy was beginning to flow,--the
first stage of the orgie which should take up the rest of the night,
and perhaps the day to follow. The Long Arrow and his party at once
joined in the drinking. Confident that they would not this time be
interrupted, they would probably use all deliberation in preparing for
the torture.
A rough meal was soon ready, and all fell to. Nothing was set apart
for the prisoner; though had he been weak they would have fed him to
stay him for the torture. One of his guardians, in mock pity, threw
him a bone to which a little meat clung. He asked that his hands be
loosed, or at least tied in front of his body, but his request brought
jeers from the little group about him. Seeing that there was no hope
of aid, he rolled over and gnawed the bone where it lay on the ground.
The warriors laughed again, and one kicked it away; but Menard crawled
after it, and this time was not disturbed. A little later, two other
Indians came from the fire, and after a talk with his guards, ordered
him to his feet and led him to one of the huts. The door was of rude
boards, hung on wooden hinges, and now held in place by a short log.
One brave kicked away the log, and Menard was thrown inside with such
force that he fell headlong.
Through an opening in the roof came a wide beam of moonlight. He
looked up, and at first thought he was alone; then he saw two figures
crouching against the rear wall. His own face and head were so covered
with dust and blood that he could not have been recognized for a white
man.
"Who are you?" he said in Iroquois.
"Captain!" came in a startled voice that he knew for Father Claude's;
and a little gasp of relief from the other figure brought a thrill of
joy. He tried to raise himself, but in an instant they had come to him
and were laughing and sobbing and speaking his name. While Father
Claude seized his shoulders to lift him, the maid fell on her knees,
and with her teeth tried to cut the thongs.
"Wait, Father," she said in a mumbled voice, without pausing in her
work; "wait a moment."
Menard could feel her warm tears dropping on his hands.
"You must not, Mademoiselle," said the priest. "You must let me."
She shook her head, and worked faster, until the thongs fell away and
she could rub with her own torn hands the Captain's wrists.
"Now he may arise, Father. See--see what they have done to him."
Menard laughed. All the weight that had pressed on his heart had
lifted at the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands. The laugh
lingered until he was on his feet, and the three stood close together
in the patch of moonlight and looked each into the other's eyes--not
speaking, because there was no word so complete as the relief that had
come to them all; a relief so great, and a bond so strong that during
all the time they should live thereafter, through other days and other
times, even across the seas in lands where much should be about them
to draw a mist over the past, the moment would always be close in
their memories,--it would stand out above all other deeds and other
moments. Then the Captain held out his hands, and they each took one
in a long clasp that told them all to hope, that stirred a new, daring
thought in each heart. Father Claude at last turned away with shining
eyes. The maid stood looking up at this soldier whom she trusted, and
a little sigh passed her lips. Then she too turned, and to cover her
thoughts she hummed a gay air that Menard had heard the trumpeters
play at Quebec.
"Tell us, M'sieu," she said abruptly, "what is it? How did it
happen?"
"It is the Long Arrow."
"So we thought," said Father Claude; "but he was not with the party
that brought us here, and we could not know. They came while we were
sleeping, and bound our mouths so that we could not scream. I was at
fault, I--"
"No, Father. You cannot say that. I left you. I should have been at
your side."
"Will you tell us about it, M'sieu?" asked the maid. She was leaning
against the bark wall, looking at the two men.
Menard dropped to the ground, and in a quiet voice gave them the story
of his capture. The priest rested near him on the broken-down bench
that slanted against one wall. As the story grew, the maid came over
and sat at the Captain's feet where she could watch his face as he
talked. When he reached the account of the fight at the grave, he
paused and looked at her upturned face. Then he went on, but he did
not take up the tale where he had dropped it. He could not tell her of
Tegakwita's end. As he went on to the fight with the Long Arrow's band
and the flight through the hill country, he thought that she had
missed nothing; but when he had finished she said:--
"And Tegakwita, M'sieu? Did he come with them?"
"No," Menard replied; "he did not come. I killed him."
He had not meant to let the words come out so brutally. And now, as he
saw the frightened look, almost of horror, come into her eyes, he
suffered in a way that would not have been possible before he had
known this maid. He read her thoughts,--that she herself was the cause
of a double tragedy,--and it for the moment unmanned him. When he
could look at her again, she was more nearly herself.
"Go on, M'sieu. There is more?"
"No. There is no more, except that I am here with you. But of
yourselves? You have told me nothing."
"We have told you all there is to tell," said Father Claude. "We were
taken while we slept. They have come rapidly, but otherwise they have
not been unkind."
"You have had food?"
"Yes."
"We must think now," Menard said abruptly; "we must put our wits
together. It is late in the night, and we should be free before dawn.
Have you thought of any way?"
"Yes," replied the priest, slowly, "we have thought of one. Teganouan
is with our party. At the first he tried to keep out of sight, but of
course he could not, once we were on the way. He was a long time at
the Mission of St. Francis, and I at one time hoped that he would
prove a true believer. It was drink that led him away from us,--an old
weakness with him. This morning, when he passed me, I knew that he was
ashamed. I dared not speak to him; but since then, whenever my eyes
have met his, I have seen that look of understanding."
"I fear you will not see it to-night," said the Captain. "They are
drinking."
"Ah, but he is not. He is guarding the hut. Come, M'sieu, it may be
that we can see him now."
Menard rose, and with the priest peered through the cracks at the rear
of the hut. After a moment they saw him, standing in the shadow of a
tree.
"You are sure it is he, Father?"
"Ah, M'sieu, I should know him."
Menard rested his hand on a strip of rotting bark in the wall. The
priest saw the movement.
"Yes," he said cautiously, "it would be very simple. But you will be
cautious, M'sieu. Of course, I do not know--I cannot tell surely--and
yet it must be that Teganouan still has a warm heart. It cannot be
that he has forgotten the many months of my kindness."
While they stood there, hesitating between a dozen hasty plans, a
light step sounded, and in an instant their eyes were at the opening.
A second Indian had joined the guard, and was talking with him in a
low voice. Father Claude gripped the Captain's arm.
"See, M'sieu,--the wampum collar,--it is the Long Arrow."
Menard laid his finger on his lips. The two Indians were not a dozen
yards away. The chief swayed unsteadily as he talked, and once his
voice rose. He carried a bottle, and paused now and then to drink from
it.
"Teganouan is holding back," whispered Menard. "See, the Long Arrow
has taken his arm--they are coming--is the door fast?"
"We cannot make it fast, M'sieu. It opens outward."
Menard sprang across to the door and ran his hands over it, but found
no projection that could be used to hold it closed. He stood for a
moment, puzzling; then his face hardened, and he fell back to where
the priest and the maid stood side by side.
"They will get in, M'sieu?"
"Yes. It is better."
They did not speak again. The moccasined feet made no noise on the
cleared ground, and it seemed a long time before they could hear the
log fall from the door. There were voices outside. At last the door
swung open, and the Long Arrow, bottle in hand, came clumsily into the
hut and stood unsteadily in the square of moonlight. He looked about
as if he could not see them. Teganouan had come in behind him; and the
door swung to, creaking.
"The White Chief is the brother of the Long Arrow," said the chief,
speaking slowly and with an effort to make his words distinct. "He
loves the Onondagas. Deep in his mind are the thoughts of the young
white brave who lived in our villages and hunted with our braves and
called the mighty Big Throat his father. He never forgets what the
Onondagas have done for him. He has a grateful heart." The effort of
speaking was confusing to the chief. He paused, as if to collect his
ideas, and looked stupidly at the three silent figures before him.
"... grateful heart," he repeated. "The Long Arrow has a grateful
heart, too. He remembers the kind words of the white men who come to
his village and tell him of the love of the Great Mountain. He never
forgets that the Big Buffalo is his brother--he never forgets. When
the Big Buffalo took his son from the hunting party of the Onondagas
he did not forget."
Menard did not listen further. He was looking about the hut with
quick, shifting eyes, now at the chief in the moonlight, now at
Teganouan, who stood at one side in the shadow, now at the door. Could
Teganouan be trusted to help them? He glanced sharply at the warrior,
who was looking at his chief with an alert, cunning expression. His
musket lay carelessly in the hollow of his arm, his knife and hatchet
hung at his waist. The chief had only his knife; in his hand was the
bottle, which he held loosely, now and then spilling a few drops of
the liquor.
"The Long Arrow nev'r f'rgets,"--the chief's tongue was getting the
better of him. "His house is lonely, where the fire burns alone and
the young warr'r who once laid 's blanket,--laid 's blanket by the
fire, no long'r 's there to warm the heart of the Long Arrow. But now
his loneliness is gone. Now when he comes from the hunt to 's house
he'll find a new fire, a bright fire, and a new squaw to warm 's
heart--warm 's heart." He swayed a little as he spoke, and Teganouan
took a short step forward; but the chief drew himself up and came
slowly across the patch of moonlight. His eyes were unnaturally
bright, and they rolled uncertainly from one to another of the little
group before him. His coarse black hair was matted and tangled, and
the eagle feathers that at the council had stood erect from his head
now drooped, straggling, to one side.
The maid had understood. The two men drew close to her on each side,
and her hand rested, trembling, on Menard's arm. All three were
thinking fast. One scream, the sound of a struggle or even of loud
voices, would bring upon them the whole drunken band. As the chief
approached, the maid could feel the muscles harden on the Captain's
arm.
"Long Arrow's lonely--his fire's not bright when he comes from hunt--"
Here and there in his talk a few words were distinguishable as he
stood lurching before them. He reached out in a maudlin effort to
touch the maid's white face. She drew in her breath quickly and
stepped back; then Menard had sprung forward, and she covered her eyes
with her hands.
There was a light scuffle, but no other sound. A strong smell of
brandy filled the hut. Slowly she lifted her head, and let her hands
drop to her sides. The Long Arrow lay sprawling at her feet, his head
gashed and bleeding, and covered with broken glass and dripping
liquor. The priest had kneeled beside him, and over his bowed head she
saw Teganouan, startled, defiant, his musket halfway to his shoulder,
his eyes fixed on the door. Her eyes followed his gaze. There stood
the Captain, his back to the door, the broken neck of the bottle
firmly gripped in his hand.
She stepped forward, too struck with horror to remain silent.
"Oh, M'sieu!" she said brokenly, stretching out her hands.
He motioned to her to be quiet, and she sank down on the bench.
"Father," he said.
The priest looked up questioningly. There was a long moment of
silence, and the shouts and calls of the half-drunken revellers
without sounded strangely loud. Then, as the priest gazed at the set,
hard face of the Captain, and at the motionless Indian, he understood
of a sudden all the wild plan that was forming in the Captain's mind.
He rose slowly to his feet, and stood facing Teganouan, with the light
streaming down upon his gentle face.
"The sun has gone to sleep many times, Teganouan, since you left the
great white house of the church at St. Francis. You have heard the
counsel of evil men, who think only of the knife and the hatchet and
the musket, who have no dream but to slay their brothers." He was
speaking slowly and in a kindly voice, as a father might speak to a
son who has wandered from the right. "Have you forgotten the talk of
the holy Fathers, when they told you the words of the Book of the
Great Spirit, who is to all your Manitous and Okis as the sun is to
the stars. Have you forgotten the many moons that passed while you
lived in the great white house,--when you gave your promise, the
promise of an Onondaga, that you would be a friend to the white man,
that you would believe the words of the Great Spirit and live a
peaceful life? Have you forgotten, Teganouan, the evil days when your
enemy, the fire-water, took possession of your heart and led you away
from the white house into the lodges of them that do wrong,--how when
the good spirit returned to you and you came back to the arms of the
Faith, you were received as a son and a brother? The holy Fathers did
not say, 'This warrior has done that which he should not do. Let him
be punished. We have no place for the wrongdoer.' No; they did not say
this. They said, 'The lost is found. He that wandered from the fold
has returned.' And they welcomed the lost one, and bade him repent and
lead a right life. Have you forgotten, Teganouan?"
The Indian had slowly lowered his musket.
"Teganouan has not forgotten," he replied. "He has a grateful heart
toward the holy Fathers of the great white house. When he was sick,
they brought him their good doctor and told him to live. He believed
that the white men were his brothers, that they would do to him as the
Fathers had promised. But when Teganouan came to the white men, and
asked to be made like they were, he left behind in his village a
brother and a sister and a father who said that he was a traitor, who
said that he was false to the trust of his blood and his nation, that
he was not of their blood."
"And did he believe them? Did he not know, better than they could,
that the faith of the white man is also the faith of the redman; that
the love of the white man includes all who breathe and speak and hunt
and trade and move upon the earth?"
"Teganouan has not forgotten. He heard the words of the Fathers, and
he believed that they were true; but when the white Captain took from
the Onondagas five score of their bravest warriors and called them
slaves, when he took the brother of Teganouan, borne by the same
mother and fed by the same hand, to be a slave of the mighty
Chief-Across-the-Water, could he remember what the holy Fathers had
said,--that all men were brothers?"
"Teganouan has heard what the White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has said,
that the evil man who was treacherous to the Onondagas shall be
punished?"
"Teganouan understands. But the evil man is far from the vengeance of
the white man. The White Chief is here in our lodges."
Menard left the door and came to the priest's side. The jagged piece
of glass, his only weapon, he threw to the ground.
"Teganouan," he said slowly and firmly, looking into the Indian's
eyes, "you heard the great council at the Long House of the Five
Nations. You heard the decision of the chiefs and warriors, that they
whom Onontio had sent to bring a message of peace should be set free.
You have broken the pledge made by your council. You have attacked us
and made us prisoners, and brought us here where we may be tortured
and killed and none may know. But when the Great Mountain finds that
the Big Buffalo has not come back, when he sends his white soldier to
the villages of the Onondagas and asks what they have done to him who
brought his voice, what will you say? When the chiefs say, 'We set him
free,' and look about to find the warrior who has dared to disobey the
Long House, what will you say? When the young boys and the drunkards
with loose tongues have told the story of the death of the Long Arrow,
what will you say? Then you will be glad to flee to the white house of
the holy Fathers, knowing that they will protect you and save you when
the braves of your own blood shall pursue you."
Teganouan's eyelids had drooped, and now he was looking at the ground,
where the chief lay.
"You will come with me, Teganouan. You will fly with us over the Long
Lake, and through the forests and down the mighty rivers and over the
inland sea, and there you shall be safe; and you shall see with your
own eyes the punishment that the Great Mountain will give to the evil
man who has been false to the Onondagas."
He held out his hand, and silently waited. The priest's head was
raised, and his lips moved slowly in prayer. The maid sat rigid, her
hands tightly gripping the edge of the bench. Though he knew that
every moment brought nearer the chance of discovery, that the lives of
them all hung on a thread as slender as a hair, the Captain stood
without the twitching of a muscle, without a sign of fear or haste in
his grave, worn face.
The Indian's eyes wavered. He looked at the fallen chief, at the
priest, at Menard; then he took the offered hand. No further word was
needed. Menard did not know the thought that lay behind the cunning
face; it was enough that the Indian had given his word.
"Quick, we must hide him," said the Captain, looking swiftly about the
hut. "We must disturb you, Mademoiselle--"
In a moment the three men had lifted the body of the Long Arrow and
laid it away under the low bench. Teganouan scraped a few handfuls of
earth from a corner and spread it over the spot where the chief had
been.
"How far is it to the lake, Teganouan?"
"But a few rods."
"And the forest is thick?"
"Yes."
"We must cross the lake. Is there a canoe here?"
The Indian shook his head. Menard stood thinking for an instant.
"If you are thinking of me, M'sieu, I think I can swim with you," said
the maid, timidly.
"There is no other way, Mademoiselle. I am sorry. But we will make it
as easy as we can."
He stepped to the rear wall, and with a blow of his fist would have
broken an opening through the rotted bank, but the Indian caught his
arm.
"It is not necessary. See." He set rapidly to work, and in a few
silent moments he had unlaced the thread-like root that held the sheet
of bark in place, and lowered it to the ground. He raised himself by
the cross-pole that marked the top of the wall, and slipped through
the opening. A few quick glances through the trees, and he turned and
beckoned. Menard followed, with the knife of the Long Arrow between
his teeth; and with Father Claude's help the maid got through to where
he could catch her and lower her to the ground.
The Indian made a cautious gesture and crept slowly through the
yielding bushes. One by one they followed, the Captain lingering until
the maid was close to him and he could whisper to her to keep her
courage. They paused at the bank of the lake. The water lay sparkling
in the moonlight. Menard looked grimly out; this light added to the
danger. He found a short log close at hand and carried it to the
water.
"Come, Mademoiselle," he whispered, "and Father Claude. This will
support you. Teganouan and I will swim. Keep low in the water, and do
not splash or speak. The slightest noise will travel far across the
lake."
Slowly they waded out, dropping into the water before it was waist
deep. Teganouan's powder-horn and musket lay on the log, and the maid
herself steadied it so that they should not be lost.