THE ONLY WAY.
When at last the canoe slipped from the confines of river and hills
and forest out upon the great Lake Ontario, where the green water
stretched flat, east and north and west to the horizon, the Cayuga
warriors said farewell and turned again to their own lands. It was at
noon of a bright day. The water lay close to the white beach, with
hardly a ripple to mar the long black scallops of weed and drift which
the last storm had left on the sand. The sky was fair and the air
sweet.
In the one canoe which the Cayugas had left to them, the little party
headed to the east, now skimming close to the silent beach, now
cutting a straight path across some bay from point to point, out over
the depths where lay the sturgeon and the pickerel and trout and
whitefish. The gulls swooped at them; then, frightened, soared away in
wide, rushing circles, dropping here and there for an overbold minnow.
The afternoon went by with hardly the passing of a word. Each of them,
the Captain, the maid, the priest, looked over the burnished water,
now a fair green or blue sheet, now a space of striped yellow and
green and purple, newly marked by every phase of sun and cloud; and to
each it meant that the journey was done. Here was solitude, with none
of the stir of the forest to bring companionship; but as they looked
out to the cloud-puffs that dipped behind the water at the world's
end, they knew that far yonder were other men whose skins were white,
for all of beard and tan, whose tongue was the tongue of Montreal, of
Quebec, of Paris,--and neither tree nor rock nor mountain lay between.
The water that bore them onward was the water that washed the beach at
Frontenac. Days might pass and find them still on the road; but they
would be glorious days, with the sun overhead and the breeze at their
backs, and at evening the wonder of the western sky to make the water
golden with promise. As they swung their paddles, the maid with them,
their eyes were full of dreams,--all save Teganouan. His eyes were
keen and cunning, and when they looked to the north it was not with
thoughts of home. It may be that he was dreaming of the deed which
might yet win back his lost name as an Onondaga warrior.
The sun hung over the lake when at last the canoe touched the beach.
They ate their simple meal almost in silence, and then sat near the
fire watching the afterglow that did not fade from the west until the
night was dark and the moon high over the dim line that marked the
eastern end of the lake. The sense of relief that had come to them
with the first sight of the lake was fading now. They were thinking of
Frontenac, and of what might await them there,--the priest soberly,
the maid bravely, the Captain grimly. Later, when the maid had said
good-night, and Father Claude had wandered down the beach to the
water's edge, Menard dragged a new log to the fire and threw it on,
sending up the flame and sparks high above the willows of the bank. He
stretched out and looked into the flames.
Teganouan, who had been lying on the sand, heard a rustle far off in
the forest and raised his head. He heard it again, and rose, standing
motionless; then he took his musket and came toward the fire. The
Captain lay at full length, his chin on his hands. He was awake, for
his eyes were open, but he did not look up. The Indian hesitated, and
stood a few yards away looking at the silent figure, as if uncertain
whether to speak. Finally he stepped back and disappeared among the
willows.
Half an hour went by. Father Claude came up the beach, walking
slowly.
"It is growing late, M'sieu, for travellers."
Menard glanced up, but did not reply. The priest was looking about the
camp.
"Where is Teganouan, M'sieu? Did you give him permission to go away?"
"No; he is here,--he was here." Menard rose. "You are right, he has
gone. Has he taken his musket?"
"I think so. I do not see it."
"He left it leaning against the log. No; it is not there. Wait,--do
you hear?"
They stood listening; and both caught the faint sound of a body moving
between the bushes that grew on the higher ground, close to the line
of willows. Menard took up his musket and held it ready, for they had
not left the country of the Iroquois.
"Here he comes," whispered Father Claude. "Yes, it is Teganouan."
The Indian was running toward them. He dropped his musket, and began
rapidly to throw great handfuls of sand upon the fire. The two white
men sprang to aid him, without asking an explanation. In a moment the
beach was lighted only by the moon. Then Menard said:--
"What is it, Teganouan?"
"Teganouan heard a step in the forest. He went nearer, and there were
more. They are on the war-path, for they come cautiously and slowly."
"Father, will you keep by the maid? We must not disturb her now. You
had better heap up the sand about the canoe so that no stray ball can
reach her."
The priest hurried down the beach, and Menard and the Indian slipped
into the willows, Menard toward the east, Teganouan toward the west,
where they could watch the forest and the beach on all sides. The
sound of an approaching party was now more distinct. There would be a
long silence, then the crackle of a twig or the rustle of dead leaves;
and Menard knew that the sound was made by moccasined feet. He was
surprised that the invaders took so little caution; either they were
confident of finding the camp asleep, or they were in such force as to
have no fear. While he lay behind a scrub willow conjecturing, Father
Claude came creeping up behind him.
"I will watch with you, M'sieu. It will make our line longer."
"Is she safe?"
"Yes. I have heaped the sand high around the canoe, even on the side
toward the water."
"Good. You had better move off a little nearer the lake, and keep a
sharp eye out. It may be that they are coming by water as well, though
I doubt it. The lake is very light. I will take the centre. You have
no musket?"
"No; but my eyes are good."
"If you need me, I shall be close to the bushes, a dozen yards farther
inland."
They separated, and Menard took up his new position. Apparently the
movement had stopped. For a long time no sound came, and then, as
Menard was on the point of moving forward, a branch cracked sharply
not twenty rods away. He called in French:--
"Who are you?"
For a moment there was silence, then a rush of feet in his direction.
He could hear a number of men bounding through the bushes. He cocked
his gun and levelled it, shouting this time in Iroquois:--
"Stand, or I will fire!"
"I know that voice! Drop your musket!" came in a merry French voice,
and in another moment a sturdy figure, half in uniform and half in
buckskin, bearded beyond recognition, had come crashing down the
slope, throwing his arms around the Captain's neck so wildly that the
two went down and rolled on the sand. Before Menard could struggle to
his feet, three soldiers had followed, and stood laughing, forgetting
all discipline, and one was saying over and over to the other:--
"It is Captain Menard! Don't you know him? It is Captain Menard!"
"You don't know me, Menard, I can see that. I wish I could take the
beard off, but I can't. What have you done with my men?"
Now Menard knew; it was Du Peron.
"I left them at La Gallette," he said.
"I haven't seen them--oh, killed?"
Menard nodded.
"Come down the beach and tell me about it. What condition are you in?
Have you anybody with you?" Before Menard could answer, he said to one
of the soldiers:--
"Go back and tell the sergeant to bring up the canoes."
They walked down the beach, and the other soldiers set about building
a new fire.
"Perhaps I'd better begin on you," Menard said. "What are you doing
here? And what in the devil do you mean by coming up through the woods
like a Mohawk on the war-path?"
The Lieutenant laughed.
"My story isn't a long one. I'm cleaning up our base of supplies at La
Famine. We've got a small guard there. The main part of the rear-guard
is back at Frontenac."
"Where is the column?"
"Gone to Niagara, Denonville and all, to build a fort. They'll give it
to De Troyes, I imagine. It's a sort of triumphal procession through
the enemy's country, after rooting up the Seneca villages and fields
and stockades until you can't find an able-bodied redskin this side of
the Cayugas. Oh, I didn't answer your other question. What do you
think of these?" He held out a foot, shod in a moccasin. "You'd never
know the King's troops now, Menard. We're wearing anything we can pick
up. I've got a dozen canoes a quarter of a league down the lake. I saw
your fire, and thought it best to reconnoitre before bringing the
canoes past." He read the question in Menard's glance. "We are not
taking out much time for sleep, I can tell you. It's all day and all
night until we get La Famine cleared up. There is only a handful of
men there, and we're expecting every day that the Cayugas and
Onondagas will sweep down on them."
"They won't bother you," said Menard.
"Maybe not, but we must be careful. For my part, I look for trouble.
The nations stand pretty closely by each other, you know."
"They won't bother you now."
"How do you know?"
"What did I come down here for?"
"They didn't tell me. Oh, you had a mission to the other nations? But
that can't be,--you were captured."
Menard lay on his side, and watched the flames go roaring upward as
the soldiers piled up the logs.
"I could tell you some things, Du Peron," he said slowly. "I suppose
you didn't know,--for that matter you couldn't know,--but when the
column was marching on the Senecas, and our rear-guard of four hundred
men--"
"Four hundred and forty."
"The same thing. You can't expect the Cayugas to count so sharply as
that. At that time the Cayugas and Onondagas held a council to discuss
the question of sending a thousand warriors to cut off the rear-guard
and the Governor's communications."
The Lieutenant slowly whistled.
"How did they know so much about it, Menard?"
"How could they help it? Our good Governor had posted his plans on
every tree. You can see what would have happened."
"Why, with the Senecas on his front it would have been--" He paused,
and whistled again.
"Well,--you see. But they didn't do it."
"Why not?"
"Because I spoke at that council."
"You spoke--but you were a prisoner, weren't you?"
"Yes."
The Lieutenant sat staring into the fire. Slowly it came to him what
it was that the Captain had accomplished.
"Why, Menard," he said, "New France won't be able to hold you, when
this gets out. How you must have gone at them. You'll be a major in a
week. You're the luckiest man this side of Versailles."
"No, I'm not. And I won't be a major. I'm not on the Governor's pocket
list. But I don't care about that. That isn't the reason I did it."
"Why did you do it then?"
"I--That's the question I've been asking myself for several days, Du
Peron."
The Lieutenant was too thoroughly aroused to note the change in the
Captain's tone.
"You don't see it right now, Menard. Wait till you've reached the
city, and got into some clothes and a good bed, and can shake hands
with d'Orvilliers and Provost and the general staff,--maybe with the
Governor himself. Then you'll feel different. You're down now. I know
how it feels. You're all tired out, and you've got the Onondaga dirt
rubbed on so thick that you're lost in it. You wait a few weeks."
"Did the Governor have much trouble with the Senecas?"
"Oh, he had to fight for it. He was--My God, Menard, what about the
girl? I was so shaken up at meeting you like this that it got away
from me. The column had hardly got to the fort on their way up from
Montreal before everyone was asking for you. La Grange had a letter
from her father saying that she was with you, and he's been in a bad
way. He says that he was to have married her, and that you've got away
with her. It serves him right, the beast. One night, at La Famine, he
was drunk, and he came around to all of us reading that letter at the
top of his voice and swearing to kill you the moment he sees you. He's
been talking a good deal about that."
"She is here, asleep."
"Thank God."
"Where is La Grange now?"
"He's over at Frontenac. He got into trouble before we left La Famine.
He's drinking hard now, you know. He had command of a company that was
working on the stockades, and he made such a muss of it that his
sergeant had to take hold and handle it to get the work done at all.
You can imagine what bad feeling that made in his company. Played the
devil with his discipline. Well, he took it like a child. But that
night, when he got a little loose on his legs, he hunted up the
sergeant and made him fight. The fellow wouldn't until La Grange came
at him with his sword, but then he cracked his head with a musket."
"Hurt him?"
"Yes. They took him up to Frontenac. He's in the hospital now, but
it's pretty generally understood that d'Orvilliers won't let him go
out until the Governor gets back from Niagara. He's well enough
already, they say. It's hard on the sergeant, too; no one blames
him."
Du Peron looked around and saw Teganouan lying near.
"Who's this Indian?" he asked in a low tone.
"He is with me. A mission Indian."
"Does he know French? Has he understood us?"
"I don't know. I suppose so. Here is Father Claude de Casson. You
remember him, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed."
The Lieutenant rose to greet the priest, and then the three sat
together.
"You asked me about the fight, didn't you, Menard? I don't seem able
to hold to a subject very long to-night. We struck out from La Famine
on the morning of the twelfth of July. You know the trail that leads
south from La Famine? We followed that."
Menard smiled at the leaping fire.
"Don't laugh, Menard; that was no worse than what we've done from the
start. The Governor never thought but what we'd surprise them as
much on that road as on another. And after all, we won, though it did
look bad for a while. There was a time, at the beginning of the
fight,--well, I'm getting ahead of myself again. We were in fairly
good order. Callieres had the advance with the Montreal troops. He
threw out La Durantaye, with Tonty and Du Luth,--the _coureurs de
bois_, you know,--to feel the way. La Durantaye had the mission
Indians, from Sault St. Louis and the Montreal Mountain, on his left,
and the Ottawas and Mackinac tribes on his right."
"How did the Ottawas behave?"
"Wretchedly. They ran at the first fire. I'll come to that. The others
weren't so bad, but there was no holding them. They spread through the
forest, away out of reach. Perrot had the command, but he could only
follow after and knock one down now and then."
"The Governor took command of the main force?"
"Yes. And he carried his bale like the worst of us; I'll say that for
him. It was hot, and we all drooped a bit before night. And he made a
good fight, too, if you can forgive him that bungling march. When we
bivouacked, some of Du Luth's boys scouted ahead. They got in by
sunrise. They'd been to the main village of the Senecas on the hill
beyond the marsh,--you know it, don't you?"
"Yes."
"And they saw nothing but a few women and a pack of dogs. The Governor
was up early,--he's not used to sleeping out doors in the mosquito
country,--sitting on a log at the side of the trail, talking with
Granville and Berthier. I wasn't five yards behind them, trying to
scrape the mud off my boots--you know how that mud sticks, Menard.
Well, when the scouts came in with their story, the Governor stood up.
'Take my order to La Durantaye,' he said, 'that he is to move on with
all caution, that the surprise may be complete. He will push forward,
following the trail. You,' he said, to a few aides who stood by, 'will
see that the command is aroused as silently as possible.' Well, I
didn't know whether to laugh at the Governor or pity myself and the
boys. Any man but the crowd of seigniors that he had about him would
have foreseen what was coming. I knew that the devils were waiting for
us, probably at one of the ravines where the trail runs through that
group of hills just this side of the marsh. You know the place,--every
one of us knows it. But what could we say? I'd have given a month's
pay to have been within ear-shot of La Durantaye when he got the
order. La Valterie told me about it afterward. 'What's this?' he says,
'follow the trail? I'll go to the devil first. There's a better place
for my bones than this pest-ridden country.' He calls to Du Luth:
'Hear this, Du Luth. We're to "push forward, following the trail."' I
can fairly hear him say it, with his eyes looking right through the
young aide. 'Not I,' says Du Luth, 'I'm going around the hills and
come into the village over the long oak ridge!' 'You can't do it. I
have the Governor's order.' And then Du Luth drew himself up, La
Valterie says, and looked the aide (who wasn't used to this kind of a
soldier, and wished himself back under the Governor's petticoats) up
and down till the fellow got red as a Lower Town girl. 'Tell your
commanding officer,' says Du Luth, in his big voice, 'that the advance
will "push forward, following the trail,"--and may God have mercy on
our poor souls!'
"Well, Menard, they did it, nine hundred of them. And we came on, a
quarter of a league after, with sixteen hundred more. We got into the
first defile, and through it, with never a sound. Then I was sure of
trouble in the second, but long after the advance had had time to get
through, everything was still. There was still the third defile, just
before you reach the marsh, and my head was spinning, waiting for the
first shot and wondering where we were to catch it and how many of us
were to get out alive. And then, all at once it came. You see the
Senecas, three hundred of them at least, were in the brush up on the
right slope of the third defile; and as many more were in the elder
thickets and swamp grass ahead and to the left. They let the whole
advance get through,--fooled every man of Du Luth's scouts,--and then
came at them from all sides. We heard the noise--I never heard a
worse--and started up on the run; and then there was the strangest
mess I ever got into. They had surprised the advance, right
enough,--we could see Du Luth and Tonty running about knocking men
down and bellowing out orders to hold their force together,--but you
see the Senecas never dreamed that a larger force was coming on
behind, and we struck them like a whirlwind. Well, for nearly an hour
we didn't know what was going on. Our Indians and the Senecas were so
mixed together that we dared not shoot to kill. Our own boys, even the
regulars, lost their heads and fell into the tangle. It was all
yelling and whooping and banging and running around, with the smoke so
thick that you couldn't find the trail or the hills or the swamp. I
was crowded up to my arms in water and mud for the last part of the
time. Once the smoke lifted a little, and I saw what I thought to be a
mission Indian, not five yards away, in the same fix. I called to him
to help me, and he turned out to be a Seneca chief. Our muskets were
wet,--at least mine was, and I saw that he dropped his when he started
for me,--so we had it out with knives."
"Did he get at you?"
"Once. A rib stopped it--no harm done. Well, I was tired, but I got
out and dodged around through the smoke to find out where our boys
were, but they were mixed up worse than ever. I was just in time to
save a _coureur_ from killing one of our Indians with his own hatchet.
Most of the regulars scattered as soon as they lost sight of their
officers. And Berthier,--I found him lying under a log all gone to
pieces with fright.
"I didn't know how it was to come out until at last the firing eased a
little, and the smoke thinned out. Then we found that the devils had
slipped away, all but a few who had wandered so far into our lines--if
you could call them lines--that they couldn't get out. They carried
most of their killed, though we picked up a few on the edge of the
marsh. It took all the rest of the day to pull things together and
find out how we stood."
"Heavy loss?"
"No. I don't know how many, but beyond a hundred or so of cuts and
flesh-wounds like mine we seemed to have a full force. We went on in
the morning, after a puffed-out speech by the Governor, and before
night reached the village. The Senecas had already burned a part of
it, but we finished it, and spent close to ten days cutting their corn
and destroying the fort on the big hill, a league or more to the east.
Then we came back to La Famine, and the Governor took the whole column
to Niagara,--to complete the parade, I suppose."
The story told, they sat by the fire, silent at first, then talking as
the mood prompted, until the flames had died and the red embers were
fading to gray. Father Claude had stretched out and was sleeping.
"I must look about my camp," Du Peron said at length. "Good-night."
"Good-night," said Menard; and alone he sat there until the last spark
had left the scattered heap of charred wood.
The night was cold and clear. The lake stretched out to a misty
somewhere, touching the edge of the sky. He rose and walked toward the
water. A figure, muffled in a blanket stood on the dark, firm sand
close to the breaking ripples. He thought it was one of Du Peron's
sentries, but a doubt drew him nearer. Then the blanket was thrown
aside, and he recognized, in the moonlight, the slender figure of the
maid. She was gazing out toward the pole-star and the dim clouds that
lay motionless beneath it. The splash of the lake and the call of the
locusts and tree-toads on the bank behind them were the only sounds.
He went slowly forward and stood by her side. She looked up into his
eyes, then turned to the lake. She had dropped the blanket to the
sand, and he placed it again about her shoulders.
"I am not cold," she said.
"I am afraid, Mademoiselle. The air is chill."
They stood for a long time without speaking, while the northern clouds
sank slowly beneath the horizon, their tops gleaming white in the
moonlight. Once a sharp command rang through the night, and muskets
rattled.
"What is that?" she whispered, touching his arm.
"They are changing the guard."
"You will not need to watch to-night, M'sieu?"
"No; not again. We shall have an escort to Frontenac." He paused; then
added in uncertain voice, "but perhaps--if Mademoiselle--"
She looked up at him. He went on:
"I will watch to-night, and to-morrow night, and once again--then
there will be no need: we shall be at Frontenac. Yes, I will watch; I
will myself keep guard, that Mademoiselle may sleep safely and deep,
as she slept at the Long Lake and in the forests of the Cayugas. And
perhaps, while she is sleeping, and the lake lies still, I may dream
again as I did then--I will carry on our story to the end, and
then--"
He could not say more; he could not look at her. Even at the rustle of
her skirt, as she sank to the beach and sat gazing up at him, he did
not turn. He was looking dully at the last bright cloud tip, sinking
slowly from his sight.
"Frontenac lies there," he said. "I told them I should bring you
there. It has been a longer road than we thought,--it has been a
harder road,--and they have said that I broke my trust. Perhaps they
were not wrong--I would have broken it--once. But we shall be there in
three days. I will keep my promise to the chiefs; and we--we shall not
meet again. It will be better. But I shall keep watch, to-night and
twice again. That will be all."
He looked down, and at sight of the mute figure his face softened.
"Forgive me--I should not have spoken. It has been a mad dream--the
waking is hard. When I saw you standing here to-night, I knew that I
had no right to come--and still I came. I have called myself a
soldier"--his voice was weary--"see, this is what is done to soldiers
such as I." One frayed strip of an epaulet yet hung from his shoulder.
He tore it off and threw it out into the lake. A little splash, and it
was gone. "Good-night, Mademoiselle,--good-night."
He turned away. The maid leaned forward and called. Her voice would
not come. She called again and again. Then he heard, for he stood
motionless.
"M'sieu!"
He came back slowly, and stood waiting. She was leaning back on her
hands. Her hair had fallen over her face, and she shook it back,
gazing up and trying to speak.
"You said--you said, the end--"
He hesitated, as if he dared not meet his thoughts.
"You said--See," she fumbled hastily at her bosom, "see, I have kept
it."
She was holding something up to him. In the dim light he could not
make it out. He took it and held it up. It was the dried stem and the
crumbling blossom of a daisy. For a moment he kept it there, then,
while he looked, he reached into his pocket and drew out the other.
"Yes," he said, "yes--" His voice trembled; his hand shook. Her hair
had fallen again, and she was trying to fasten it back. He looked at
her, almost fiercely, but now her eyes were hidden. "We will go to
Frontenac;" he said; "we will go to Frontenac, you and I. But they
shall not get you." He caught the hands that were braiding her hair,
and held them in his rough grip. "It is too late. Let them break my
sword, if they will, still they shall not get you."
Her head dropped upon his hands, and for the second time since those
days at Onondaga, he felt her tears. For a moment they were
motionless; he erect, looking out to the pole-star and over the water
that stretched far away to the stone fort, she sobbing and clinging to
his scarred hands. Then a desperate look came into his eyes, and he
dropped on one knee and caught her shoulders and held her tightly,
close against him.
"See," he said, with the old mad ring in his voice, "see what a
soldier I am! See how I keep my trust! But now--but now it is too late
for them all. I am still a soldier, and I can fight, Valerie. And God
will be good to us. God grant that we are doing right. There is no
other way."
"No," she whispered after him; "there is no other way."