BROTHER JACQUES TELLS THE STORY OP HIAWATHA
At the noon meal madame's chair at the table was vacant, and Anne, who
had left madame outside the convent gate and had not seen her since,
went up to the room to ascertain the cause of the absence. She found
the truant asleep, the last vestige of her recent violent tears
fringing her lashes. Silently Anne contemplated the fall and rise of
the lovely bosom, eyed thoughtfully the golden thread which encircled
the white throat; and wondered. Had this poor victim of conspiracy,
this puppet in the cruel game of politics, left behind in France some
unhappy love affair? What was this locket which madame hid so
jealously? She bent and pressed a kiss upon the blooming cheek,
lightly and lovingly. And light as the touch of her lips was, it was
sufficient to arouse the sleeper.
"What is it?" madame said, sitting up. "Oh, it is you, Anne. I am
glad you awoke me. Such a frightful dream! I dreamt that I had
married the Chevalier du Cévennes! What is the hour?"
"It is the noon meal, dear. You have been weeping."
"Yes, for France, beloved France, with all its Mazarins and its cabals.
Anne, dear, I must confess. I can not remain here. I am afraid,
afraid of D'Hérouville, the vicomte. I am going to return on the Henri
IV. I can bear it here no longer. I shall find a hiding place beyond
the reach of Mazarin."
"As you think best. But why not enter the Ursulines with me? There is
peace in the House of God."
"Is there not peace wherever the peaceful heart is? Walls will not
give me peace."
"You should have known your heart before you left France," shrewdly.
"Anne, does any one know the human heart? Do you know yours?"
Anne's eyes closed, for the briefest moment. Know her heart? Alas!
"Come, Gabrielle; they are waiting for us at the table."
"I will go with you, but I have no appetite."
"We will go upon the water after four. It will pass away the time.
You are certain that you wish to return to France; from passive danger
into active?"
Madame nodded.
"I will inform his Excellency, for it is no more than right that he
should be acquainted with your plans."
"How serious you have become, Anne," wistfully. "I am sure that I
should be livelier and more contented if you were not always at prayer.
I am lonely at times."
"You have been here scarce more than a week."
Madame did not reply.
At four her calm and even spirits returned; and the thought of seeing
France again filled her with subdued gaiety. The sun was nearing the
forests' tops when the two women sauntered down to the river front, to
put about the governor's pleasure boat. They put blankets and mats
into the skiff and were about to push off, when Brother Jacques
approached them.
"Now, what may he want?" asked Anne, in a whisper.
"You are going for a row upon the river?" asked Brother Jacques,
respectfully.
"Yes, Brother Jacques," replied Anne. "Is not the water beautiful and
inviting?"
"I would not venture far," he said. "Iroquois have been reported in
the vicinity of Orléans."
"We intend to row as far as Sillery and back. There can be no danger
in that."
Brother Jacques looked doubtful.
"And are not the Iroquois our friends?" asked madame. "Are not
Frenchmen building a city in the heart of their kingdom?"
Brother Jacques smiled sadly. "Madame, I should not be surprised to
learn on the morrow that the expedition to Onondaga had already been
exterminated."
"You, of all persons, should be loyal to the Indian," replied Anne,
arranging the mats in the bottom of the boat.
"Mademoiselle, I know him thoroughly. That is why I undertake to warn
you. The rattlesnake which you dread is less terrible to me than the
Iroquois. My duty, not my inclination, makes me walk among them."
"We promise not to go beyond sight of the warehouses."
"Come with us," said Anne. "We will read to you and you will in turn
tell us the legend of Hiawatha, so long delayed."
"If madame is agreeable," replied the priest, his heart beating a
trifle faster than normal: he was human, and these two women were
beautiful.
"Come with us, by all means," said madame graciously.
"You will sit in the stern, Gabrielle," said the admiral's
granddaughter; "I shall sit on the mat, as the Indian says, and Brother
Jacques shall take the oars. And take care that we do not run away
with you."
"I am not afraid," returned Brother Jacques, a secret happiness
possessing him. "Besides, I can swim." He recognized the danger of
beauty in close proximity, but he unwisely forgot the dangers of time
and place. How much rarer the world becomes to the man who has seen
flower gardens and beautiful women moving to and fro among them! Ah,
that ragged, rugged highway which he had traversed: dry crusts of life,
buffets, bramble, curses and mockery. And here was realized one of his
idle dreams. He took a dozen long strokes, which sent the craft up
stream in the direction of Sillery, and let the oars drift. "You were
to read a book?" he asked.
"It would burn your godly ears," said madame: "Malherbe."
"I have read him," quietly.
"What? Oh, fie, Monsieur le Jesuit!" And madame laughed at his
confusion.
"When I was eighteen. That was before I took the orders." He picked
up the oars again and pulled strongly and noiselessly. His thought was
far away just then: when he was eighteen.
Anne, with her shoulders resting against madame's knees, opened the
book which Victor had given her on a Sunday the year before. Sometimes
Brother Jacques's stroke beat rhythmically with the measures; sometimes
the oars trailed through the water with a low, sweet murmur. He could
see nothing but those two fair faces.
They were nearing the heights of Sillery when Anne closed the book.
"And now for Hiawatha and his white canoe," she said.
"Very well; I will tell you of the good Hiawatha, his daughter, and his
white canoe. He came from the sky one day, in this very wonderful
canoe. He had given up his rights as a deity in order to mingle with
men and teach them wisdom. He was the wisest of all Indians as Nestor
was the wisest of all the Greeks. As a god he was known as
Taounyawatha, and he presided over the fisheries and the waterways.
Whenever there was dissension among the various nations of the
Iroquois, it was his word which settled the dispute. Grey-haired he
was, penetration marked his eye, dark mystery pervaded his countenance.
One day there was internal war and great slaughter followed. The wise
men of the nations got together and summoned Hiawatha. They built
great council fires on the shores of Genentaha Lake, which we call
Onondaga. For three days these fires burned, but the great sage did
not put in appearance, and nothing could be done without his counsel.
When at last messengers found him in his secret abode, he was in a most
melancholy state of mind. Great evil lay in his path, he said; and he
had concluded not to attend the council at Genentaha. But the
messengers said that the great wise men could not proceed with business
until the council was graced with his presence. And if he did not
come, annihilation awaited his children."
Brother Jacques rested on his oars again. Only his voice was with his
narrative; his mind was filled with longing, the same longing which had
always blocked his path to priestly greatness: the love of women.
"So Hiawatha removed his sacred white canoe from the lodge built for
it, and the messengers reverentially assisted him to launch it. The
wise man once again took his accustomed seat, and bade his daughter, a
girl of twelve, and his heart's darling, to accompany him. She
unhesitatingly obeyed; and together they made all possible speed toward
the grand council ground. At the approach of the venerable sage, a
shout of joy resounded throughout the assembled host, and every
demonstration of respect was paid to the illustrious one. As he landed
and was passing up the steep bank toward the council ground, a loud
noise was heard, like the rushing of a mighty wind. All eyes were
instantly turned upward, and a dark spot was discovered rapidly
descending from the clouds above. It grew larger and larger as it
neared the earth, and was descending with frightful velocity into their
very midst. Terror filled every breast, and every one seemed anxious
for his own safety. Confusion prevailed. All but the venerable
Hiawatha sought safety in flight. He gravely uncovered his silvered
head and besought his darling daughter to await the approaching danger
with becoming resignation, at the same time reminding her of the
futility and impropriety of attempting to prevent the designs of the
Great Spirit.
"'If,' he said, 'the Great Spirit is determined upon our destruction,
we shall not escape by removal, nor evade his decrees.'"
"And he was an Indian who expressed that thought?" said madame,
wonderingly.
The boat drifted: not down stream as was natural, but up against the
current, contrary to the laws of nature. Had they all been less
interested in what was going on in their minds, they would have at once
remarked this phenomenal performance.
"There is a mysterious particle of God in every savage," replied
Brother Jacques, mentally comparing Anne's eyes with flashing water.
"Well, to go on. Hiawatha's daughter modestly acquiesced to her kind
parent's advice, and with patient submission awaited the catastrophe.
All this was but the work of an instant; for no sooner had the
resolution of the wise man become fixed and his latest words uttered
than an immense bird, with long and pointed beak, with wide extended
wings, came down with a mighty swoop and crushed the beautiful girl to
the earth. With such force did the monster fall, and so great was the
commotion of the air, that when it struck the ground, the whole
assemblage was forced violently back several rods. Hiawatha alone
remained unmoved, and silently witnessed the melancholy end of his
beloved. 'Ai, ai, ai, agatondichou! Alas, alas, alas, my beloved!
His darling had been killed before his eyes and her destroyer had been
killed with her. His own time on earth was at an end.
"It was found upon examining the bird that it was covered with
beautiful white plumage; and every warrior as he advanced plucked a
plume from this singular bird, and with it adorned his crown. And
forever after the braves of the confederate nations made choice of the
plumes of the white herons as their most appropriate military ornament.
"Hiawatha was not to be consoled. He remained prostrate three nights
and days, neither eating nor drinking. Then he roused and delivered
the great harangue to the multitude, gave them the advice which made
them so powerful. To the Mohawks he said that they should be called
the first nation, because they were warlike and mighty; the Oneidas
should be second, because of their wisdom; the Onondagas should be
third, because they were mightiest of tongue and swiftest of foot; the
Cayugas should be fourth, because of their superior cunning in hunting;
and the Senecas should be fifth, because of their thrift in the art of
raising corn and making cabins. To avoid all internal wars, all civil
strife, they must band together in this wise, and they should conquer
all their enemies and become great forever.
"'Lastly,' he said, 'I have now assisted you to form a mighty league, a
covenant of strength and friendship. If you preserve it, without
admission of other people, you will always be free, numerous and
mighty. If other nations are admitted into your councils, they will
sow jealousies among you, and you will become enslaved, few and feeble.
Remember these words; they are the last you will hear from Hiawatha.
Listen, my friends, the Great Master of Breath calls me to go. I have
patiently awaited his summons. I am ready; farewell.'
"And as the wise man closed his speech, there burst upon the air the
sound of wondrous music. The whole sky was filled with sweetest
melody. Amid the general confusion which prevailed, Hiawatha was seen
majestically seated in his white canoe, gracefully rising higher and
higher above their heads through the air, until the clouds obscured it
from view. Thus, as he came, he left them; but he had brought wisdom
and had not taken it away, the godlike Taounyawatha, and son of the
Great and Good Spirit Hawahneu. It is the learning of these poetical
legends that has convinced us that some day we shall convert these
heretics into Christians. It is . . ." Brother Jacques seemed turned
into stone.
A hand, dark and glistening with water resting upon the gunwale of the
boat, just back of madame, had caught his eye. Both women saw the
horror grow in his face.
"What is it?" they cried.
Without replying he caught up the oars. The water boiled around the
broad blades: the boat did not turn, but irresistibly maintained its
course up the river. With an exclamation of despair, he wrenched loose
one of the oars, lifted it above his head and brought it swiftly down
toward the hand. The blade splintered on the gunwale. The hand had
been withdrawn too swiftly. At the same instant the boat careened and
a bronzed and glistening savage raised himself into the boat; and
another, and another. They were captives, madame, Anne, and Brother
Jacques. There stood the frowning fortress in the distance, help; but
no voice could reach that distance. They were lost.
One of the Indians drew a knife and held it suggestively against
Brother Jacques's breast. Neither madame nor Anne screamed; they were
daughters of soldiers.
There were four Indians in all. They had daringly breasted the stream,
and had grasped the towing line and the stern and had silently
propelled the boat up the current.
"For myself I do not care," said Brother Jacques, his voice breaking.
"But God forgive me for not being firm when I warned you."
"You are not to blame, Father," said madame. She was pale, but calm.
"What will they do with us?" asked Anne, a terrible thought dazing her.
"We are in the hands of God."
The boat moved diagonally across the river. When the forest-lined
shore was gained, the leader motioned his captives to disembark, which
they did. He put the remaining oar into the lock and pushed the
governor's pleasure craft down stream, smiling as he did so. Next he
drew forth two canoes from under drooping elderberry bushes and
motioned to the women and Brother Jacques to enter.
"What are you going to do with us?" asked Brother Jacques in his best
Iroquois.
"Make slaves of the white man's wives," gruffly. "The squaws of the
Senecas long for them. And shall the Seneca see his favorite wife weep
like a mother who has lost her firstborn?"
"Ah!" cried the priest, a light of recognition coming into his eyes.
"So it is you, Corn Planter, whom I baptized Peter, whom I saved from
starvation three times come the Winter Maker! So the word and
gratitude of Corn Planter become like walnuts which have no meat?
Beware; these are the daughters of Onontio, and his wrath will be
great."
"It is the little Father," replied the Seneca. "It is well. He shall
have food in plenty, and his days shall be long in my village, where he
will teach my children the laws of his fathers. As for Onontio, he
sleeps in his stone house while my brothers from the Mohawk valley
carry away his Huron children. The daughters of Onontio shall become
slaves. I have said."
"I will give my body to the stake," said Brother Jacques; "my flesh and
bones to torture. Let Onontio's daughters go."
"I have seen the little Father with his thumb in the pipe, and he
smiles like a brave man. No. They are fairer than the blossom of the
wild plum, and their hair is like the silk of corn. They shall be
slaves or wives, as they choose. Make haste," pushing the priest
toward the canoe in which madame and Anne had already taken their
places.
Had he been alone he would have resisted, so great was his wrath. A
moment's vanity placed him and these poor women in this predicament.
He had been warned by a trader that a small band of Iroquois were
hanging about, and yet he had been drawn into this! Yonder was the
marquis, who might die . . . !
"Take care, little Father," warned the Seneca, realizing by the
Jesuit's face the passion which was mounting to his brain. "It would
cause the Corn Planter great sorrow to strike."
Brother Jacques's shoulders drooped, and he sat down in the bottom of
the canoe.
"They will not harm us for the present," he said to the women
encouragingly. "And there is hope for us is the fact that these are
Senecas. To reach their villages they will perforce travel the same
route as the Onondaga expedition. And we shall probably pass close to
where our friends are."
"But the boat," said madame, "Monsieur de Lauson will think that we
have been drowned!"
"Jean Pauquet saw me enter the boat with you, and he knows that I am a
good sailor. Monsieur de Lauson will suspect immediately that we have
fallen into the hands of savages, and will instantly send us aid. So
keep a good heart and show the savage that you do not fear him. If you
can win his respect he will be courteous to you; and that will be
something, for the journey to Seneca is long."
Neither woman replied. Madame's thought went back rebelliously to the
morning. "To the ends of the world," the Chevalier had said. She
shook her head wearily. It was all over. She cared not whither these
savages took her. Mazarin would not find her indeed! What a life had
been hers! Only twenty-two, and nothing but unhappiness, disillusion,
with here and there an hour of midsummer's madness. And that note she
had written! The thought of it sustained her spirits. By now he knew
all. She shut her eyes and pictured in fancy his pain and astonishment
and chagrin. It was exhilarating. She would have liked to cry.
The Seneca chief spoke softly, commanding silence, and the canoes
glided noiselessly along the southern shores of the great river. The
sun sank presently, and night became prodigal with her stars.
Occasionally there was the sound of gurgling water as some brook poured
into the river, or the whisper of stirring branches lightly swept by
the feathered heads of the Indians. Aside from these infrequent
sounds, the silence was vast and imposing. Anne, with her head in
madame's lap, wept bitterly but without sound. She was a girl again;
the dignity of womanhood was gone, being no longer in the shadow of the
convent walls.
Brother Jacques saw nothing in the velvet glooms but the figure of
Monsieur le Marquis as it lay that night after the duel.
Whenever the Senecas came to a habitation, they drew up the canoes and
carried them overland, far distant into the forest, making a
half-circuit of the point. During these portages the fatigue of the
women was great. Several times Anne broke down, unable to proceed.
Sometimes the savages waited patiently for her to recover, at other
times they were cruel in their determination to go on. Once Brother
Jacques took Anne's slight figure in his strong arms and carried her a
quarter of a mile. She hung upon his neck with the content of a weary
child, and the cool flesh of her cheek against his neck disturbed the
tranquillity of his dreams for many days to come.
Madame, on her part, struggled on without complaint. If she stumbled
and fell, no sound escaped her lips. She regained her feet without
assistance. Madame's was a great spirit; she knew the strength of
resignation.
It was after two o'clock when the Iroquois signified their intention of
pitching camp till dawn. They were far away from the common track now.
The last portage had carried them across several small streams. They
were in the heart of the forest. All night Brother Jacques sat at the
side of the women, guarding with watchful eyes. How the spirit and the
flesh of this man warred! And all the while his face in the filtered
moonlight was marbled and set of expression. He was made of iron,
constitutionally; his resolution, tempered steel.
Anne slept, but not so madame. She listened and listened: to the stir
of the leaves, to the dim murmur of running water, to the sighs of the
night wind, to the crackling of a dry twig when Anne turned uneasily in
her sleep. She listened and listened, but the sound she hungered for
never came.
At Quebec the news of the calamity did not become known till near
midnight. As the wind-drifted pleasure-boat told its grim story,
desolation fell upon the hearts of four men, each being conscious in
his own way that some part of the world had shifted from under his
feet. The governor recommended patience; he was always recommending
that attribute; he was always practising it, and fatally at times. The
four men shook their heads. The Chevalier and Victor bundled together
a few necessities, such as cloaks, blankets and arms. They set out at
once while the moon was yet high; set out in silence and with sullen
rage.
Jean Pauquet and the vicomte were in the act of following, when
D'Hérouville, disheveled and breathing heavily from his run down from
the upper town, arrested them.
"Vicomte," he cried, "you must take me with you. I can find no one to
go with me."
"Stay here then. Out of the way, Monsieur." The vicomte was not
patient to-night, and he had not time for banter.
"I say that you shall!"
"Not to-night. Now, Pauquet."
"One of us dies, then!" D'Hérouville's sword was out.
"Are you mad?" exclaimed the vicomte, recoiling.
"Perhaps. Quick!" The sword took an ominous angle, and the point
touched the vicomte.
"Get in!" said the vicomte, controlling his wild rage. "I will kill
you the first opportunity. To-night there is not time." He seized his
paddle, which he handled with no small skill considering how recently
he had applied himself to this peculiar art of navigation.
Pauquet took his position in the stern, while D'Hérouville crouched
amidships, his bare sword across his knees. The vicomte's broad back
was toward him, proving his contempt of fear. They were both brave men.
"Follow the ripple, Monsieur," said Pauquet; "that is the way Monsieur
le Chevalier has gone."
It was all very foolhardy, this expedition of untried men against
Indian cunning; but it was also very gallant: the woman they loved was
in peril.
So the two canoes stole away upon the broad bosom of the river and
presently disappeared in the pearly moon-mists, the one always hugging
the wake of the other. The weird call of the loon sometimes sounded
close by. The air was heavy with the smell of water, of earth, and of
resin.
Three of these men had taken the way from which no man returns.