JOURNEYING TO A FAR COUNTRY
The colony passed a very fair winter. It was in the latter part of April
that one night an alarm was given and the big bell at the fort rang out
its call to arms.
The messenger had trudged through the snow and was breathless.
"An Indian attack. The Iroquois are burning the settlement, and
murdering our people. To arms! to arms!"
There had been no Indian raid for a long while. Destournier had tried to
fortify the back of his plantation. There were Montagnais and Algonquins
of the better type living there peaceably. It was not altogether
cupidity. An Iroquois woman had been found cruelly murdered, and the
wandering band laid it at once to the settlement. It took only a brief
while to work themselves up to a frenzy.
It did not take long to plan revenge. There was no chief at the head;
indeed, in these roving bands it was every brave for himself. And now
after a powwow, since they were not large enough in numbers to attack
the fort, and they found some of the Indian converts were in the new
settlement, they determined on an onslaught.
The barricade at the back was high and strong. It was not so well
fortified on the side toward the fort, and they pushed through a weak
place at the end, lighted their torches, and commenced a treacherous
assault. Roused from their slumbers, and terrified to the last degree,
the air was soon filled with shrieks, and bursting in doors, the houses
were set on fire. They were wary enough to guard their loop-hole for
escape, but they found themselves outnumbered, and in turn had to fight
for their own lives. The blazing huts lighted up the snow in a weird
fashion; the shrieks and cries and jargon of the Iroquois added to the
frightfulness. Yet the struggle was brief. The enemy, finding themselves
on the losing side, began to fly, pursued by the soldiers, and indeed,
many of the inhabitants.
Destournier roused at the first alarm, and Du Parc gave orders that were
speedily obeyed. The citadel was in a glow of light and wild commotion.
Giffard ran down the stone steps with his musket. Destournier barred his
way.
"Some of us have no wives," he said briefly. "Go back and keep guard
until we see what the dastardly attack means."
"There are wives and children in the settlement," was the reply, but he
paused while Destournier ran on. When he was out of sight, Giffard
followed.
The soldiers pursued the flying band, but they presently plunged into
the woods and crept on stealthily, while the pursuers returned. The gray
morning began to dawn on the smoking ruin and the fitful blazes that the
men were trying hard to extinguish with the snow. Destournier went from
one to another. A few huts had not been disturbed, and crying women and
children were crowding in them. Some bodies lay silent on the
blood-stained snow. Destournier had taken great pride in the surprise he
had thought to give the Governor on his return, and here lay most of his
hopes in ruins.
He gave orders that the wounded should be taken to the fort for
treatment. It was a gratification to find two Iroquois dead, and when a
soldier despatched a wounded one he made no comment. It was pitiful when
the sun rose over the scene of destruction.
"Still there could not have been a large body, or the carnage would have
been more complete," he said, with some comforting assurance.
"You had better come in for some breakfast," an officer remarked. "You
look ghastly, and you are blood-stained."
He glanced down at his garments. "Yes," he said, "I will take your
advice. I want something hot to drink. And we must send some food over
there."
Rose came flying in as he was demolishing a savory slice of venison.
"Where is M. Giffard?" she cried. "Miladi is so frightened. She wants
him at once. Oh, wasn't it dreadful! Thank the saints you are safe!"
"Giffard!" He had caught two or three glimpses of him in the melee. "He
may be attending to the wounded. He is a brave fellow in an emergency. I
must find him."
He swallowed the brandy and water and rushed down to the improvised
hospital. A dozen or more were being fed and nursed by Wanamee and two
other Indian women. The priest, too, was kindly exhorting courage and
patience. Giffard was not here. No one had seen him. He ran over the
crusty, but trodden-down snow, stained here and there with blood. The
sun had risen gorgeously, and there was a decided balminess in the air.
He glanced at the insides of the huts. The furry skins had not been good
conductors of flames, and the snow on the roofs had saved them. Beside
the two dead Iroquois there was an Abenaqui woman and her child. In the
huts that were intact, the frightened women and children had huddled.
Some of the men were already appraising possible repairs.
"They went this way," announced an Algonquin, in his broken French. He
had been employed about the fort and found trusty.
The path was marked with blood and fragments of clothing, bags of maize,
that they had dropped in their flight--finding them a burthen. Here lay
an Iroquois with a broken leg, who was twisting himself along. The
Algonquin hit him a blow over the head with the stout club he carried.
"He will not get much further," he commented, as the Indian dropped over
motionless.
"Have you seen M. Giffard?" Destournier asked.
"_Non, non_. The men came back."
"He is not at the fort."
"Shall we follow on?"
Destournier nodded.
They heard a step crunching over the snow and waited breathlessly.
It was Jacques Roleau they saw as he came in sight, one of the workmen
at the fort. He gestured to them that all was right.
"They have fled, what was left of them," he explained. "I despatched two
wounded Iroquois that they had left behind. There are two of our men
that they must have made prisoners, the M'sieu at the fort who has the
pretty wife, and young Chauvin"--and he paused, as if there was more to
say.
"Wounded?"
He shook his head sadly.
"Dead?" Destournier's breath came with a gasp.
"Both dead, M'sieu, but strange, neither has been scalped."
"Let us push on," exclaimed Destournier sadly.
They followed the trail. After a short distance a body had been dragged
evidently. Roleau led the way through a tortuous path until they came in
sight of a small vacant spot where sometime Indians had camped, as they
could tell by the scorched and blackened trees. A nearly nude body had
been fastened to one and a few dead branches gathered, evidently for a
fire.
Destournier stood speechless. The head hung down, the face was unmarred,
save for a few scratches, and he gave thanks for that. But his heart was
heavy within him. The poor body had been stabbed and cut, yet it had not
bled much, it seemed.
He would have felt relieved if he had known the whole story. Two
stalwart bucks had seized Giffard just beyond the settlement and hurried
him along at such a pace that he could hardly breathe. They fastened his
arms behind, each man grasping an elbow, and fairly galloped, until one
of them caught his foot in a fallen tree and went down. In the fall
Giffard's temple struck against a stone that knocked him senseless. He
might have revived, but he was hurried along by a stout leathern thong
slipped under the armpits, and was then dragged a dead weight. They had
stopped for a holocaust and bound him to a tree, while they despatched
the younger man. But there was difficulty in finding anything dry enough
to burn, so they had amused themselves by gashing the dead body. Then
suddenly alarmed they had plunged farther into the forest, leaving one
of their own wounded that Roleau had finished.
Giffard had been captured in a moment of incautiousness, but the sights
and the wantonness had fired his blood and roused a spirit of
retaliation.
They had nearly stripped both bodies, and carried off the garments.
"If you can manage, M'sieu," exclaimed their guide, "I will take the
young fellow." He stooped, picked him up, and threw him over his
shoulder.
"You will find him a heavy burthen," as the man staggered a little.
"I can carry. Do not fear," nodding assurance.
Destournier took off his fur coat and wrapped it about the poor body.
Each took hold of the improvised litter and they commenced their
melancholy journey. How could Madame Giffard stand it, for she really
did love him. The man's heart ached with the sincerest pity.
They laid down their burthens inside the settlement in one of the partly
destroyed cabins. Du Parc came thither to meet them.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "that fine young fellow who was going to be a great
success. The company wanted him back in France. And his poor wife! The
blow will kill her."
"I wished him to remain within for her sake. He was no coward, either. I
would give the whole settlement if it would restore him to life. The
Governor thought it an excellent, but venturesome plan. But we must have
colonists if ever we are to make a town that will be an honor to New
France."
"It is not such a complete ruin. We have lost two men, one woman, and
three children. Five Iroquois bodies have been found and two are badly
wounded."
"And two more out in the woods. They had better be buried, so as to stir
up no more strife. It could not have been a large party, or we would
have suffered more severely."
"The English have had many of these surprises. I think we have been
fortunate, even if we have fewer in numbers. And it would have been
worse if there had been growing crops."
"I shall have the fortifications strengthened. And perhaps it would be
well to keep guard."
They left Roleau in charge of the bodies and turned to the fort. The
wounded had been made comfortable.
Rose sprang down the steps to meet Destournier.
"Oh, have you found him? Miladi is almost dead with grief and anxiety.
She is sure they have killed M. Giffard."
"Poor wife! How will we tell her?"
"Oh, then he is dead?" The child's face was blanched with terror.
"Yes, he has been killed by the cruel savages. But we have brought home
his body. Who is with her?"
"Wanamee and Madawando, who is saying charms over her. She is the
medicine woman who brought back the Gaudrion baby when he was dead. Oh,
can you not make her bring back M. Giffard? Miladi will surely die of
grief. Couldn't they put some one in his place? Wouldn't the great God
listen to the priest's prayers?" and she raised her humid, beseeching
eyes.
"My child, you loved him dearly."
"Sometimes. Then he made me feel--well, as if I could run away. He was
never cross. Oh, I think it was because he loved Miladi so very much,
there was no room for any one else. And that is why I love you
so--because you have no one belonging to you."
"We are alike in that," he made answer.
He saw Wanamee presently.
"She goes from one dying fit to another. Madawando brings her back. But
if he is dead, M'sieu, why should they not let her join him?"
Would she be happier in that great unknown land with him. What was there
here for her?
And some way he felt in part responsible. He had risked his life to save
Destournier's property.
There were sad days in the fort. The weather came off comparatively
pleasant, and the half-ruined huts were repaired, the wounded healed,
the losses made good, as far as possible. The dead Iroquois were put in
a trench, but better sepulture was provided for the colonists, and the
services over the body of M. Giffard were in a degree military. The two
Recollet priests were kindness and devotion personified, and they said
prayers every hour in their rude little chapel, where a candle was kept
burning before the altar.
They frowned severely on what they termed the mummeries of Madawando.
Even the Indian converts, and they were few enough, lapsed into charms
and incantations in times of trouble. They willingly had their children
baptized, as if this was one of the charms to ward off danger. But the
priests labored with unabated courage.
Miladi seemed to hover a long while between the two worlds, it was
thought, but the real spring was coming on, and all nature was reviving.
She had never quite wanted to die, so at the lowest ebb she seemed to
will herself back to life by some occult power.
Rose meanwhile had run quite wild, but she had been Destournier's
companion in his walks, in his canoe journeys; sometimes with Marie
Gaudrion, she was in and out of the settlement, and as she understood a
little of the several Indian languages, she was quite a favorite; but
Destournier felt troubled about her at times. She was very fearless,
very upright, and detected the subterfuges of the children of the
wilderness, condemning them most severely. But they never seemed angry
with her.
Sometimes he thought he would send her to France and begin her education
in a convent. But could the wild little thing who skipped and danced and
sung, climbed rocks and trees, managed a canoe, tamed birds that came
and sang on her shoulder, endure the dull routine of convent life? She
could read French quite fluently. She had taken an immense fancy to
Latin, and caught the lines so easily when Destournier read them from
musical Horace, or the stirring scenes of the Odyssey, the only two
Latin books he owned. And her head was stuffed full of wild Indian
tales.
"I wonder," she said one day, as she sat on the rocks, leaning against
Destournier's knee, the soft wind playing through the silken tendrils of
her hair--"I wonder if you should die whether I could be like miladi,
and want the room dark and have every one go in the softest moccasins,
and have headaches and the sound of any one's voice pierce through you
like a knife. It would be terrible."
"Why do you think of that?"
"Because I love you best of everybody. The Governor is very nice, but he
is in France so much and you are here. Then we can climb rocks together
and sit in the forests and hear the trees talk. I go to M. Giffard's
grave and say over the spells Madawando taught me, to bring him back,
but he does not come. If he could, miladi would be bright and gay again,
and we would dance and sing, and have merry times. If you died I should
want to die, too."
He was touched by the child's simple devotion.
"I am not going to die. Your Madawando told me I should live to be very
old. There were some curious lines in my hand."
"I am so glad," she said simply.
"But you had better not tell the good priest that you are trying to
bring M. Giffard back to life in this Indian fashion. They think it a
sin."
"I do not like the priests, in their dirty gray gowns, and their heads
looking as if they had been scalped. Only when they read in their book.
It sounds like those great people in the wars of Troy."
And this was a little Christian girl. Were not the priests also praying
that the souls in purgatory might be lightened of their burden? and he
smiled.
But somehow miladi pressed heavily upon his conscience. M. Giffard had
come to _his_ assistance, to save his property, as well as to save human
lives. He lost sight of the great brotherhood of mankind, of the heroism
of a truly noble soul. Was there anything he could do to lighten her
burthen?
At last she expressed a desire to see him. He had looked to find her
wasted away with grief, changed so that it would be sorrow to look upon
her. She was pale, but, it seemed, more really beautiful than he had
ever known her. Her gown was white, and she had a thin black scarf
thrown around her shoulders which enhanced her fairness. There could be
no shopping for mourning in this benighted country.
"I thought I should go to him," she said in her soft, half-languid
voice. "But the good Pere believes there is something for me to do and
that I must be content to remain, and thankful to live. But all is so
changed. Sometimes I make myself believe that Laurent has gone back to
France to settle matters. He counted so on our return. And that he will
come again for me."
"You would like to go to friends?"
"Alas, there are not many. Some have gone to England, some to Holland,
not liking the new King's policy. And some are dead. I should have no
one to make a home for me. A woman's loneliness is intense. She cannot
turn to business, nor go out and find friends."
That was true enough. He pitied her profoundly.
"Is it true our Governor is bringing his new wife to Quebec?" she asked
presently.
"So the trading vessels have said. They are already loading up with
furs, and trade seems brisk. Of course it brings great confusion. I have
taken charge of M. Giffard's bales that came in last week. They had
better be sent as usual. The Paris firm is eager for them. They are a
fine lot. What is your pleasure?"
"Oh, relieve me of all care that you can. I am so helpless. Laurent did
everything. Women were never meant for business, he thought. I am no
wiser than a child."
She looked so helpless, so sweet, so dependent.
"I shall be glad to do what I can. Yes, it would be no place for a
woman. She could not manage matters. And if you like to trust me----"
"I would trust you in all things. Laurent thought your judgment
excellent. He cared so much for you. Oh, if you will take charge----"
She looked up with sweet, appealing eyes. Did he not owe her some
protection and care? He was pondering silently.
"You have relieved me of such a burthen. I think I shall get well now.
I hardly knew whether I wanted most to live or die."
"Life is best, sweetest." It would be for her. He uttered the sentence
involuntarily.
"You make it so." Her eyes were bewitchingly downcast and a faint color
fluttered over her face, while her pretty hands worked nervously.
He paced the gallery afterward in the twilight, when the stars were
slowly finding their way through the blue vault overhead, and the river
plashed by with its monotone of music. She might desire to return to
France; this life in the wilderness did not appeal to delicate women.
Yet she had taken it very cheerfully, he thought.
If she decided to stay--there was one way in which he could befriend
her, perhaps make her happy again. Marriage was hardly considered the
outcome of love in that period, many other considerations entered into
it. There were betrothals where the future husband and wife saw each
other for the first time. And they did very well. His ideas of married
life were a sort of good-fellowship and admiration, if the woman was
pretty; good cooking and a desire to please among the commoner ones. At
four and twenty he had not given the matter much consideration. Madame
Giffard was full thirty, but she looked like a girl in her lightness and
grace. And he owed the memory of M. Giffard something. This step would
make amends and allay a troublesome sort of conscience in the matter.