AT ST. IGNACE
So much had been said of St. Ignace, and so long had the name been
familiar throughout New France, that my first view of the place
brought me bitter disappointment. The faces of the others in our party
pictured the same disillusion.
Hugo Chevet had been in these parts before on fur-trading expeditions,
and 'twas probable that De Artigny had stopped there on one of his
voyages with La Salle. But to all the others the place had been merely
a name, and our imagination had invested it with an importance
scarcely justified by what we saw as our canoes drew in toward the
beach.
The miserable little village was upon a point of land, originally
covered with heavy growth of forest. A bit of this had been rudely
cut, the rotting stumps still standing, and from the timber a dozen
rough log houses had been constructed facing the lake. A few rods
back, on slightly higher land, was a log chapel, and a house, somewhat
more pretentious than the others, in which the priests lodged. The
whole aspect of the place was peculiarly desolate and depressing,
facing that vast waste of water, the black forest shadows behind, and
those rotting stumps in the foreground.
Nor was our welcome one to make the heart rejoice. Scarce a dozen
persons gathered at the beach to aid us in making landing, rough
_engagés_ mostly, and not among them all a face familiar. It was only
later, when two priests from the mission came hurrying forward, that
we were greeted by cordial speech. These invited a few of us to become
guests at the mission house, and assigned the remainder of our party
to vacant huts.
Cassion, Chevet, and Père Allouez accompanied me as I walked beside a
young priest up the beaten path, but De Artigny was left behind with
the men. I overheard Cassion order him to remain, but he added some
word in lower voice, which brought a flush of anger into the younger
man's face, although he merely turned on his heel without reply.
The young Jesuit beside me--a pale-faced, delicate appearing man,
almost emaciated in his long black robe--scarcely breathed a word as
we climbed the rather steep ascent, but at the door of the mission
house paused gravely, and directed our attention to the scene unrolled
behind. It was indeed a vista of surpassing beauty, for from this
point we could perceive the distant curve of the shore, shadowed by
dark forests, while the lake itself, silvered by the setting sun
stretched afar to the horizon, unbroken in its immensity except for an
island lifting its rock front leagues away.
So greatly was I impressed with the view, that after we had been shown
into the bare room of the mission, where scarcely a comfort was to be
seen, I crossed to the one window, and stood there staring out,
watching the light fade across those leagues of water, until the
purple twilight descended like a veil of mist. Yet I heard the
questions and answers, and learned that nearly all the inhabitants
were away on various expeditions into the wilderness, none remaining
except the two priests in charge of the mission, and the few _engagés_
necessary for their work. Only a few days before five priests had
departed to establish a mission at Green Bay, and visit the Indian
villages beyond.
The young Jesuit spoke freely when once convinced that our party
journeyed to the Illinois country, and was antagonistic to La Salle,
who had shown small liking for his Order. The presence of Père Allouez
overcame his first suspicion at recognition of De Artigny, and he gave
free vent to his dislike of the Recollets, and the policy of those
adventurous Frenchmen who had dared oppose the Jesuits.
He produced a newly drawn map of the great lake we were to traverse,
and the men studied it anxiously while the two priests and the
_engagé_ prepared a simple meal. For the moment I was forgotten, and
left alone on a rude bench beside the great fireplace, to listen to
their discussion, and think my own thoughts.
We remained at St. Ignace three days, busily engaged in repairing our
canoes, and rendering them fit for the long voyage yet before us. From
this point we were to venture on treacherous waters, as yet scarcely
explored, the shores inhabited by savage, unknown tribes, with not a
white man in all the long distance from Green Bay to the Chicago
portage. Once I got out the map, and traced the distance, feeling sick
at heart as I thus realized more clearly the weary journey.
Those were dull, lonely days I passed in the desolate mission house,
while the others were busy at their various tasks. Only at night time,
or as they straggled in, to their meals, did I see anyone but Père
Allouez, who was always close at hand, a silent shadow from whose
presence I could not escape. I visited the priest's garden, climbed
the rocks overlooking the water, and even ventured into the dark
forest, but he was ever beside me, suave but insistent on doing his
master's will. The only glimpse I had of De Artigny was at a distance,
for not once did he approach the mission house. So I was glad enough
when the canoes were ready, and all preparations made for departure.
Yet we were not destined to escape thus easily from St. Ignace. Of
what occurred I must write as it happened to me then, and not as its
full significance became later clear to my understanding. It was after
nightfall when Cassion returned to the mission house. The lights were
burning on the table, and the three priests were rather impatiently
waiting their evening meal, occasionally exchanging brief sentences,
or peering out through the open window toward the dark water.
As long as daylight lasted this had been my post of observation, while
watching the distant figures busily engaged in reloading the canoes
for the morrow's journey. They were like so many ants, running across
the brown sands, both soldiers and Indians stripped to the waist,
apparently eager enough to complete their task. Occasionally the echo
of a song reached my ears, and the distance was not so great but that
I could distinguish individuals. Cassion sat upon a log directing
operations, not even rising to lend a hand, but Chevet gave his great
strength freely.
De Artigny was back among the huts, in charge of that end of the line,
no doubt, and it was only occasionally I gained glimpse of his
presence. An Indian canoe came ashore just before sundown, and our men
knocked off work to cluster about and examine its cargo of furs.
Angered by the delay Cassion strode in among them, and, with bitter
words and a blow or two, drove them back to their task. The loss of
time was not great, yet they were still busily engaged when darkness
shut out the scene.
Cassion came in alone, yet I observed nothing strange about his
appearance, except that he failed to greet me with the usual attempt
at gallantry, although his sharp eyes swept our faces, as he closed
the door, and stared about the room.
"What! not eaten yet?" he exclaimed. "I anticipated my fate to be a
lonely meal, for the rascals worked like snails, and I would not leave
them rest until all was finished. Faith, the odor is appetizing, and I
am hungry as a bear."
The younger priest waved his hand to the _engagé_, yet asked softly:
"Monsieur Chevet--he is delayed also?"
"He will sup with his men tonight," returned Cassion shortly, seating
himself on the bench. "The sergeant keeps guard of the canoes, and
Chevet will be useful with those off duty."
The man ate as though nearly famished, his ready tongue unusually
silent, and at the conclusion of the meal, appeared so fatigued, that
I made early excuse to withdraw so he might rest in comfort, climbing
the ladder in one corner to my own bed beneath the eaves. This
apartment, whose only advantage was privacy, was no more than a narrow
space between the sloping rafters of the roof, unfurnished, but with a
small window in the end, closed by a wooden shutter. A partition of
axe-hewn planks divided this attic into two compartments, thus
composing the priests' sleeping chambers. While I was there they both
occupied the one to the south, Cassion, Chevet, and Père Allouez
resting in the main room below.
As I lowered the trap in the floor, shutting out the murmur of voices,
I was conscious of no desire to sleep, my mind busily occupied with
possibilities of the morrow. I opened the window, and seated myself on
the floor, gazing out at the night. Below extended the priests'
garden, and beyond the dark gloom of forest depths. A quarter moon
peeped through cloud rifts, and revealed in spectral light the
familiar objects. It was a calm, peaceful scene, yet ghostly in the
silvery gleam and silence--the stumps of half-burned trees assuming
grotesque forms, and the wind tossing branches as though by some demon
hand. Yet in my restless mood that outside world called me and I
leaned forth to see if it was possible to descend.
The way of egress was easy--a mere step to the flat roof of the
kitchen, the dovetailed logs of which afforded a ladder to the ground.
I had no object in such adventure, but a restless impulse urged me,
and, almost before I realized my action, I was upon the ground.
Avoiding the gleam of light which streamed from the open window of the
room below, I crossed the garden, and reached the path leading
downward to the shore. From this point I could perceive the wide sweep
of water, showing silvery in the dim moonlight, and detect the darker
rim of the land. There was fire on the point below the huts, and its
red glare afforded glimpses of the canoes--mere blurred outlines--and
occasionally the figure of a man, only recognizable as he moved.
I was still staring at this dim picture when some noise, other than
the wind, startled me, and I drew silently back behind a great stump
to avoid discovery. My thought was that someone had left the mission
house--Cassion perhaps with final orders to those on the beach--but a
moment later I realized my mistake, yet only crouched lower in the
shadow--a man was advancing from the black concealment of the woods,
and crossing the open space.
He moved cautiously, yet boldly enough, and his movements were not
those of an Indian, although the low bushes between us and the house
shadow, prevented my distinguishing more than his mere outline. It was
only when he lifted his head into the gleam of light, and took hasty
survey through the window of the scene within, that I recognized the
face of De Artigny. He lingered scarcely a moment, evidently satisfied
with what he saw, and then drew silently back, hesitating a brief
space, as though debating his next movement.
I waited breathless, wondering what his purpose could be, half
inclined to intercept and question him. Was he seeking to serve my
cause? to learn the truth of my relationship with Cassion? or did he
have some other object, some personal feud in which he sought revenge?
The first thought sent the warm blood leaping through my veins; the
second left me shivering as if with sudden chill.
Even as I stood, hesitating, uncertain, he turned, and retraced his
steps along the same path of his approach, passing me not ten steps
away, and vanishing into the wood. I thought he paused at the edge,
and bent down, yet before I found voice, or determination to stop him,
he had disappeared. My courage returned, spurred by curiosity. Why
should he take so roundabout a way to reach the shore? What was that
black, shapeless thing he had paused to examine? I could see something
there, dark and motionless, though to my eyes no more than a shadow.
I ventured toward it, creeping behind the bushes bordering the path,
conscious of an odd fear as I drew closer. Yet it was not until I
emerged from the fringe of shrubbery that even the faintest conception
of what the object I saw was occurred to me. Then I stopped, frozen by
horror, for I confronted a dead body.
For an instant I could not utter a sound, or move a muscle of my body.
My hands clung convulsively to a nearby branch, thus supporting me
erect in spite of trembling limbs, and I stared at the grewsome
object, black and almost shapeless in the moonlight. Only part of the
trunk was revealed, the lower portion concealed by bushes, yet I could
no longer doubt it was a man's body--a large, heavily built man, his
hat still crushed on his head, but with face turned away.
What courage overcame my horror, and urged me forward I cannot tell; I
seemed impelled by some power not my own, a vague fear of recognition
tugging at my heart. I crept nearer, almost inch by inch, trembling at
every noise, dreading to discover the truth. At last I could perceive
the ghastly features--the dead man was Hugo Chevet.
I scarcely know why this discovery of his identity brought back so
suddenly my strength, and courage. But it did; I was no longer afraid,
no longer shrank from contact with the corpse. I confess I felt no
special sorrow, no deep regret at the fate which had overtaken him.
Although he was my mother's brother, yet his treatment of me had never
been kind, and there remained no memories to touch my heart. Still his
death was from treachery, murder, and every instinct urged me to learn
its cause, and who had been guilty of the crime.
I nerved myself to the effort, and turned the body sufficiently to
enable me to discover the wound--he had been pierced by a knife from
behind; had fallen, no doubt, without uttering a cry, dead ere he
struck the ground. Then it was murder, foul murder, a blow in the
back. Why had the deed been done? What spirit of revenge, of hatred,
of fear, could have led to such an act? I got again to my feet,
staring about through the weird moonlight, every nerve throbbing, as I
thought to grip the fact, and find its cause. Slowly I drew back,
shrinking in growing terror from the corpse, until I was safely in the
priest's garden. There I paused irresolute, my dazed, benumbed brain
beginning to grasp the situation, and assert itself.