ONONDAGA
The Oneida village lay under the grey haze of a chill September night.
Once or twice a meteor flashed across the vault of heaven; and the
sharp, clear stars lighted with magic fires the pure crystals of the
first frost. The hoot of an owl rang out mournfully in answer to the
plaintive whine of the skulking panther. A large hut stood in the
center of the clearing. The panther whined again and the owl hooted.
The bear-skin door of the hut was pushed aside and a hideous face
peered forth. There was a gutteral call, and a prowling cur slunk in.
Within the hut, which was about twenty feet square, men, women and
children had packed themselves. The air was foul, and the smoke from
the blazing pine knots, having no direct outlet, rolled and curled and
sank. The savages sprawled around the fire, bragging and boasting and
lying as was their wont of an evening. Near-by the medicine man,
sorcerer so-called, beat upon a drum in the interest of science and
rattled bears' claws in a tortoise-shell. A sick man lay huddled in
skins at the farthest end of the hut. His friends and relatives gave
him scant attention. Indians were taught to scorn pity. Drawings on
the walls signified that this was the house of the Tortoise.
Four white men sat among them; sat doggedly in defeat. Gallantry is a
noble quality when joined to wisdom and foresight; alone, it leads into
pits and blind alleys. And these four men recognized with no small
bitterness the truth of this aphorism. They had been ambushed scarce
four hours from Quebec by a baud of marauding Oneidas. Only Jean
Pauquet had escaped. They had been captives now for several weeks.
Rage had begun to die out, fury to subside; apathy seized them in its
listless embrace. Heavy, unkempt beards adorned their faces, and their
hair lay tangled and matted upon their shoulders. They were all
pictures of destitution, and especially the whilom debonair poet. His
condition was almost pitiable. Some knavish rascal had thrust burdocks
into his hair and another had smeared his face with balsam sap. He had
thrashed one of these tormentors, and had been belabored in return. He
had by now grown to accept each new indignity with the same patient
philosophy which made the Chevalier and the vicomte objects of
admiration among the older redskin stoics. As for D'Hérouville, he had
lost but little of his fire, and flew into insane passions at times;
but he always paid heavily for the injuries which he inflicted upon his
tormentors. His wound, however, had entirely healed, and the color on
his cheeks was healthful. He would become a formidable antagonist
shortly. And there were intervals when the vicomte eyed him morosely.
The Chevalier completely ignored the count, either in converse or in
looks. D'Hérouville was not at all embarrassed. Rather it added to
the zest of this strange predicament in which they were placed. It was
a tonic to his superb courage to think that one day or another he must
fight and kill these three men or be killed himself.
Occasionally the vicomte would stare at the Chevalier, long and
profoundly. Only Victor was aware of this peculiar scrutiny. It often
recalled to him that wild night at the Hôtel de Périgny in Rochelle.
But the scrutiny was untranslatable.
No one spoke of madame; there was no need, as each knew instinctively
that she was always in the others' thoughts. The Chevalier no more
questioned the poet as to her identity. Was she living or dead, in
captivity or safe again in Quebec? Not one laid his head down at night
without these questions.
The monotonous beating of the drum went on. Harsh laughter rose; for
every night the Indians contrived to find new epithets with which to
revile the captives. So far there had been no hint of torture save the
gamut. The Chevalier, even with his inconsequent knowledge of the
tongue, caught the meaning of some of the words. The jests were coarse
and vulgar, and the women laughed over them as heartily as the men.
Modesty and morality were not among the red man's immediate obligations.
The Chevalier devoted his time to dreaming. It was an occupation which
all shared in, as it took them mentally away from their surroundings.
He conjured up faces from the sparkle of the fire. He could see the
Rubens above the mantel at the hôtel in Rochelle, the assembly at the
Candlestick, the guardroom at the Louvre, the kitchens along the quays,
or the cabarets in the suburbs. A camp song rises above the clinking
of the bottles and glasses; a wench slaps a cornet's face for a
pilfered kiss; a drunken guardsman quarrels over an unduly heavy die.
"Count," said the vicomte to D'Hérouville, "did you ever reckon what
you should do with those ten thousand livres which you were to receive
for that paper of signatures?"
At any other time this remark would have interested Victor.
D'Hérouville, having concentrated his gaze upon the ragged soles of his
boots, saw no reason why he should withdraw it. He was weary of the
vicomte's banter. All he wanted was a sword and a clear sweep, with
this man opposing him.
"Now, if I had those livres," went on the vicomte, whose only object
was to hear the sound of his own voice, "and were at Voisin's, I should
order twelve partridge pies and twelve bottles of bordeaux."
"Bordeaux," said Victor, absently.
The Chevalier looked up, but seeing that he was not addressed, resumed
his dreams.
"Yes, my poet, bordeaux, red and friendly. And on top of that should
be a fish salad, with that wonderful vinegar and egg dressing which
Voisin alone knows how to make."
"And then?" urged Victor, falling into the grim humor of the thing.
"Then, two bottles of champagne." The vicomte stood up. He appeared
to be counting on his fingers. "That would make fourteen bottles."
"You would be drunk."
"Drunk as a fiddler on Saturday night. Now, I am going to promote my
character among these rascals by doing some medicine work myself." And
he burst forth sonorously in profanity, waving his hands and swaying
his body. He recalled every oath in his extensive camp vocabulary.
The expression on his face was sober, and Victor had a suspicion that
this exhibition was not all play. The savages regarded the vicomte as
one suddenly gone demented, till it dawned upon one of them that the
white man was committing a sacrilege, mocking the reverend medicine
man. He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck him
roughly on the mouth. The vicomte wheeled like a flash. The Indian
folded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious man
calmly in the eye. The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists,
shrugged, and sat down. It was the best and wisest thing he could do.
D'Hérouville, roused from his apathy, laughed. "Eh, you laugh?" said
the vicomte, wiping his bloody lips. His eyes snapped wickedly.
"It is a habit I have," retorted D'Hérouville, glancing boldly at the
Chevalier.
"Some day your habit will choke you to death."
D'Hérouville's cheeks darkened. He returned to the contemplation of
his boots.
"Ten thousand livres!" The vicomte wiped his lips again, and became
quiet.
This was one evening among many of its like. The poet busied himself
with taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking them
to pieces. . . . And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which had
lasted nearly two years! And madame was unknown to him! What was her
purpose? Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams. Ever was
he hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of her
flowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes. Once he had
come upon her while she slept. Oh, happy thief, to have pressed his
lips upon that cheek, blooming delicately as a Persian peach! And that
memory was all he had. She did not love him!
The musing came to an abrupt end. A moccasined foot shot out and
struck Victor in the small of the back, sending him reeling toward the
fire. In trying to save himself he extended his hands. He fell upon a
glowing ember, and his palms were burned cruelly. Cries of laughter
resounded through the hut. Victor bit his lips to repress the cry of
pain.
With the agility of a panther, the Chevalier sprang toward the bully.
There was a terrible smile on his face as he seized the young brave's
wrists in a grip of iron. The Oneida was a strong youth, but he
wrestled in vain. The Chevalier had always been gifted with strength,
and these weeks of toil and hardship had turned his muscles into fibers
unyielding as oak. Gradually he turned the Indian around. The others
watched the engagement with breathless interest. Presently the Indian
came to his knees. Quick as light the Chevalier forced him upon his
face, caught an arm by the elbow and shoved the brown hand into the
fire. There was a howl of pain and a yell of laughter. Without
seeming effort the Chevalier then rolled the bully among the
evil-tempered dogs. So long as he continued to smile, the Indians saw
nothing but good-natured play, such as had been the act which caused
Victor his pain. The Chevalier sat down, drew his tattered cloak
around his shoulders, and once more resumed his study of the fire.
"Hoh!" grunted the fighting braves, who frankly admired this exhibition
of strength.
"Curse it, why didn't I think of that?" said the vicomte, his hand
seeking his injured mouth again.
"God bless you for that, Paul," murmured Victor, the sparkle of tears
in his eyes. "My hands do not hurt half so much now."
"Would to God, lad, you had gone to Spain. I am content to suffer
alone; that is my lot; but it triples my sufferings to see you in pain."
"Good!" said D'Hérouville. "The cursed fool of a medicine man has
stopped his din. We shall be able to sleep." He doubled up his knees
and wrapped his arms around them.
A squaw gave Victor some bears' grease, and he rubbed his palms with
it, easing the pain and the smart.
One by one the Indians dozed off, some on their bellies, some on their
backs, some with their heads upon their knees, while others curled
themselves up among the warm-bodied dogs. Monsieur Chouan hooted once
more; the panther's whine died away in the distance; from another part
of the village a cur howled: and stillness settled down.
Victor, kept awake by his throbbing hands, which he tried to ease by
gently rocking his body, listened dully to all these now familiar
sounds. Across his shoulders was flung the historic grey cloak. In
the haste to pursue madame's captors, it had mysteriously slipped into
the bundle they had packed. Like a Nemesis it followed them
relentlessly. This inanimate witness of a crime had followed them with
a purpose; the time for its definition had not yet arrived. The
Chevalier refused to touch it, and heaped curses upon it each time it
crossed his vision. But Victor had ceased to feel any qualms; it kept
out the chill at night and often served as a pillow. Many a time
D'Hérouville and the vicomte discovered each other gaping at it. If
caught by D'Hérouville, the vicomte shrugged and smiled; on the other
hand, D'Hérouville scowled and snarled his beard with his fingers.
There was for these two men a peculiar fascination attached to that
grey garment, of which neither could rid himself, try as he would.
Upon a time it had represented ten thousand livres, a secure head, and
a woman's hand if not her heart.
Once Victor thoughtlessly clasped his hands, and a gasp of pain escaped
him.
"Does it pain you much, lad?" asked the Chevalier, turning his head.
"I shut them, not thinking. I shall be all right by morning."
The Chevalier dropped his head upon his knees and dozed. The vicomte
and the poet alone were awake and watchful.
A sound. It drifted from afar. After a while it came again, nearer.
The sleeping braves stirred restlessly, and one by one sat up. A dog
lifted his nose, sniffed, and growled. Once more. It was a cry, human
and designed. It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by several
short yells. The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth,
uttered a similar call. It was immediately answered; and a few minutes
later three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskin
and entered the hut.
"Chaumonot!" exclaimed the Chevalier.
The kindly priest extended his hands, and the four white men
respectfully brushed them with their lips. It was a tribute less to
his office than to his appearance; for not one of them saw in his
coming aught else than a good presage and probable liberation.
Chaumonot was accompanied by Father Dablon, the Black Kettle,--now
famous among his Onondaga brothers as the one who had crossed the evil
waters, and two friendly Oneida chiefs. There ensued a prodigious
harangue; but at the close of it the smile on Chaumonot's face
signified that he had won his argument.
"You are free, my sons," he said. "It took some time to find you, but
there is nothing like perseverance in a good cause. At dawn you will
return with me to Onondaga. Monsieur," addressing the Chevalier; "and
how is the health of Monsieur le Marquis, your kind father?"
The smile died from the Chevalier's face. "Monsieur le Marquis is at
Quebec; I can not say as regards his health."
"In Quebec?"
"Yes, Father," Victor interposed.
"How did you know that we were here ?" asked the vicomte.
"Pauquet, in his wanderings, finally arrived at Onondaga two weeks ago.
Upon hearing his story I at once began a search. We are virtually at
peace with the Senecas and the Oneidas."
"And . . . the women?" inquired Victor, his heart's blood gushing to
his throat.
The two Jesuits solemnly shook their heads.
Victor laid his head against the Chevalier's arm to hide the bitter
tears.
"No sign?" asked the Chevalier calmly. All the joy of the rescue was
gone.
"None. They were taken by a roving band of Senecas, of whom nothing
has been heard. They are not at the Senecas' chief village."
However great the vicomte's disappointment may have been, his face
remained without any discernible emotion. But he turned to
D'Hérouville, his tone free from banter and his dark eyes full of
menace:
"Monsieur le Comte, you and I shall soon straighten out our accounts."
"For my part, I would it were to-morrow. Our swords will be given back
to us. Take heed, Vicomte," holding out a splendid arm, as if calling
the vicomte's attention to it.
The vicomte twisted his shoulder and made a grimace. "I will kill you
as certainly as we stand here. It is written. And after you . . ."
D'Hérouville could not piece together this broken sentence.
Four days later, the first of October, they came to the mission. The
lake of Onondaga lay glittering in the sunshine, surrounded by green
valleys, green hills, and crimsoning forests. As they arrived at the
palisade and fort, Du Puys, sighting them, fired a salute of welcome.
The echoes awoke, and hurried to the hills and back again with
thrilling sound. The deer lifted his lordly antlers and trembled; the
bear, his jaws dripping with purloined honey, flattened his ears
restlessly; the dozing panther opened his eyes, yellow and round as a
king's louis; and from the dead arms of what was once a kingly pine,
the eagle rose and described circles as he soared heavenward. The gaze
of the recent captives roved. Here were fruitful valley and hill;
pine, oak, beech, maple and birch; luscious grape and rosy apple; corn
and golden pumpkin. They saw where the beaver burrowed in his dams,
and in the golden shallows and emerald deeps of the lake caught
glimpses of trout, bass, salmon and pickerel. And what a picture met
their eyes as they entered the palisades: the black-robed priests, the
shabby uniforms of the soldiers and their quaint weapons and dented
helmets, the ragged garbs of the French gentlemen who had accompanied
the expedition, the painted Indian and his ever-inconsolable dog.
"Here might a man dwell in peace," said the Chevalier.
"Not with ambition for his bride," was the vicomte's observation.
The beginning of the end came on the seventh of October, after a famous
hunting day. A great fire was built on the shores of the lake. The
moon, crooked in shape and mellow as a fat pumpkin, hung low over the
forest crests. The water was golden and red: the moon and the flames.
The braves were holding a hunting dance in honor of the kill. There
were at this time about sixty warriors encamped around the mission.
The main body was at the Long House, far back among the hills. A weird
chanting broke the stillness of the night. The outer circle was
composed of the older braves and chieftains, the colonists, the
Jesuits, and the four unhappy men who were their guests. None of the
four took particular interest in the unique performance. Here they
were, but little better situated than at Oneida. True, they were no
longer ill-treated and food was plentiful, but they were held here in a
captivity no less irksome. They were prisoners of impotency. Chance
and the god of whims had put them upon a sorry highway to the heart's
desire. It mattered nothing that madame had said plainly that she
loved none of them. The conceit of man is such that, like hope, it
dies only when he dies. Perhaps the poet's heart was the most
peaceful: he had bravely turned over the alluring page.
The dance grew wilder and noisier.
Chaumonot guilelessly pushed his inquiries regarding Monsieur le
Marquis. Those thousand livres had done so much! That generosity was
so deeply imbedded in his mind! And what had brought Monsieur le
Marquis to Quebec, and how long was he to remain? The Chevalier's jaws
knotted and knotted; but he succeeded in answering each question
courteously or avoiding it adroitly by asking a question himself. More
than once he felt the desire to leap up and dash into the forest.
Anything but that name . . . Monsieur le Marquis! "Tell Monsieur le
Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not be disturbed!" It had been
a cup of gall indeed that he drank outside his father's chamber.
All this while D'Hérouville smiled and smiled; the vicomte labored over
the rust on his blade. When at length the good Father moved to another
side of the circle, where Du Puys and Nicot sat, the Chevalier stood up
and stepped before D'Hérouville.
"Rise, Monsieur," he said. His voice was even.
D'Hérouville rose, wondering. Victor ceased to inspect his hands, and
the vicomte let the blade sink to his knees.
"You have laughed, Monsieur D'Hérouville; you have laughed at
misfortune." The Chevalier still spoke quietly. Only Victor surmised
the raging fire beneath those quiet tones.
"And will," retorted D'Hérouville, his eyes lighting with intelligence.
"At Quebec you held an unmanly threat above my head. Come with me;
there is no woman here."
"Fight you? I believe we have settled that matter," insolently.
The Chevalier brought the back of his hand swiftly against
D'Hérouville's mouth.
The laugh which sounded came from the vicomte. This would be
interesting if no one interfered. But he was up almost as quickly as
Victor, who rushed between the two men. D'Hérouville's sword was half
free.
"Wherever you say!" he cried hoarsely.
"A moment, gentlemen!" said the vicomte, pointing toward the dancing
circle.
A tall figure had stepped quietly into the dancing circle, raising his
hands to command silence. It was the Black Kettle, son of Atotarho.
"Two stranger canoes are coming up the river. Let us go to meet them,"
said the Black Kettle. "Either they are friends, or they are enemies."
"Let us wait and see what this is," and the vicomte touched the
Chevalier on the arm.
"Curse you all!" cried D'Hérouville passionately. "Liar!" He turned
upon Victor. "But for your lying tongue, I should not be here."
"After Monsieur le Chevalier," said the poet, forgetting that he could
not hold a sword.
"Rather say after me, Saumaise;" and the vicomte smiled significantly.
"All of you, together or one at a time!" D'Hérouville was mad with
rage.
"One at a time," replied the banterer; "the Chevalier first, and if he
leaves anything worth fighting, I; as for you, my poet, your chances
are nil."
Meanwhile a dozen canoes had been launched. A quarter of an hour
passed anxiously; and then the canoes returned, augmented by two more.
Father Chaumonot hailed. An answering hail came back.
"Father Chaumonot?"
"Who calls me by name?" asked the Jesuit.
"Brother Jacques!"
Brother Jacques! The human mind moves quickly from one thing to
another. For the time being all antagonism was gone; a single thought
bound the four men together again.
"Are you alone?" asked Chaumonot. His voice quavered in spite of his
effort.
"No!" sang out Brother Jacques's barytone; and there was a joyous note
in it. "Two daughters of Onontio are captives with me."
Two daughters of Onontio; two women from the Château St. Louis! A rare
wine seemed to infuse the Chevalier's blood. He forgot many things in
that moment.
"Women?" murmured Father Chaumonot, in perplexity. "Oh, this is
fortunate and yet unfortunate! What shall we do with them here? I can
spare no men to take them back to Quebec; and the journey would only
plunge them into danger even worse."
The Senecas, sullen but dignified, and their captives were brought
ashore and led toward the fire. The Onondagas crowded around. These,
then, were the fair flowers which grew in the gardens of the white man;
and the young braves, who had never before set eyes upon white women,
gazed wonderingly and curiously at the two marvels. The women
sustained with indifference and composure this mild investigation.
They had gone through so much that they were not interested in what
they saw. The firelight illumined their sadly arrayed figures and
played over their worn and weary faces. Father Chaumonot extended his
hands toward them reassuringly; and they followed his every gesture
with questioning eyes. Corn Planter, the Seneca chief, began to
harangue. Since when had the Onondaga brother taken it upon himself to
meddle with the affairs of the Senecas? Was not the law written
plainly? Did the Onondaga wish to defy the law of their forefathers?
The prisoners were theirs by right of their cunning. Let the Senecas
proceed with their captives, as their villages were yet very far away,
and they had spent much time in loitering.
"We will buy," said Father Chaumonot, knowing the savage's cupidity.
"Two belts of wampum."
The Corn Planter made a negative sign.
"Ten beaver skins," said the priest.
"The daughters of Onontio are worth a thousand beaver skins."
"Well, then," said leather Chaumonot, reaching down and taking a musket
from the ground, "this with powder and ball to go with it."
The Corn Planter wavered. He took the gun and inspected it, turned it
over to his companions that they might also pass judgment upon it; and
they whispered among themselves for a space.
"Corn Planter accepts the thunderer for himself and ten beaver skins
for his brave warriors," and the barter was consummated.
It was now that madame saw four familiar faces beyond the fire. These
men, these men; even here, in the heart of the wilderness! With an odd
little smile she extended her hands, swayed, and became limp upon
Brother Jacques's arm.