The Return of the Hurons
Steve was filled with delight at the idea of rescue. A thousand
thoughts flashed through his mind, a thousand memories of the old
days, which seemed now so very long ago, for despite the easy terms of
his imprisonment, the time had dragged heavily.
"To-night! To-night!" he said over and over again to himself as he
paced backwards and forwards. "And father is there. Where can he have
been, and how comes it that Silver Fox has managed to get into Quebec?
He seems to know the place, too, and is in no hurry to depart."
He had purposely walked in the opposite direction to that taken by
the chief, but now he watched him out of the corner of his eye.
Silver Fox was dawdling idly in the courtyard, as many another Indian
had done on that and on previous days. He strolled along the wall,
looked out at the magnificent prospect spread out before him, at
the rolling waters of this, one of the mightiest of rivers, at the
green slopes of the Isle of Orleans, and at the blue and green vista
beyond, the forest-clad southern bank which stretched right away
across the much-debated frontier to America, the colony filled with
the hardy sons of Old England, and with fugitives from many parts of
the world. Silver Fox halted for quite a little while and filled his
pipe meditatively, striking flint and steel with great deliberation,
and puffing languidly as if he had nothing in the world to occupy him,
nothing to fear, and only desired to remain there and think and watch
the lovely country below. For half an hour at least he leaned against
the granite parapet, and then Steve saw him walk softly along some
dozen paces, turn his head to the place where the sentry was placed,
and then deliberately point below.
"A signal undoubtedly," thought Steve. He dropped his hand to show
that he was watching, and then turned away again, while the Indian
chief daubed in the colours of the Hurons struck flint and steel again
as if his tobacco had not been lit sufficiently, and then sauntered
calmly from the courtyard. Half an hour later our hero ventured to the
same spot and carelessly looked over. Down below, some thirty feet
perhaps, was a narrow path running between the wall of the fort and
another wall which hemmed in the courtyard of a private residence.
"That is where I am to expect them," he thought. "Well, it is a good
place, for the path is little used, and at night time it is densely
dark. Now how am I to get here without upsetting the sentries?"
He thought for a little while, and then suddenly walked across the
courtyard, clambered up the flight of steps which led to the room
which had been allotted to him as his quarters, and promptly took off
some of his clothing. A minute later he had thrown himself on his
couch, where he lay half on his face, feigning illness. An hour or
more later there was a step outside, and the guard, whose duty it was
to make a round of the rooms occasionally, looked in at the door.
"Ha! Monsieur sleeps," he said gently, for he was a good fellow, and
Steve had always been pleasant with him. "Monsieur is tired. I will be
careful not to wake him."
He tip-toed away down the passage, and would soon have been out of
hearing had Steve remained silent. But that was the last thing he
wished to do. He desired to attract the attention of the man, and
promptly gave a groan as if he were in agony.
"Did I hear correctly? Was it monsieur who groaned?"
The guard stopped abruptly, and brought the stock of his ponderous
musket with a clatter to the ground, the jar being instantly followed
by a second groan.
"Surely, it must be monsieur. What ails you, if you please, Monsieur
Steve?" he asked, coming back to the room. "You are ill and in pain.
What is the matter?"
Steve was not the one to sham as a rule, but he knew that he could
not very well remain in the courtyard that night unless he had some
plausible reason. He was not ill. In fact, he had never felt better
or more energetic in his life. But he was 'cute, as Hunting Jim had
already observed, and he was determined to manufacture some complaint.
"It is nothing," he answered, letting another feeble groan escape him.
"I do not feel very comfortable. I have pain here. Perhaps monsieur
would speak to my servant and ask him to bring me something warm to
drink."
Steve placed his hand over his stomach and rolled on to his face
again, for he was fearful that his healthy colour would betray
him. The guard trailed his musket promptly, and went off at a run,
bellowing for the soldier who had been detailed to wait on the
prisoner.
"Quick," he cried, accosting the servant in the courtyard, "Monsieur
is ill. I discovered him lying on his couch, groaning horribly. He
desires something warm to drink. Run to the kitchen and see if you can
obtain some milk."
A little later Steve was sitting up and sipping the warm milk, while
his servant looked on sympathetically.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said, "but the pain will be better shortly.
Monsieur looks well, and I am sure that this is only a little matter;
for think, monsieur was in the courtyard two hours ago and I heard him
whistling as if he had not a care in all the world, and as if he were
with his own friends again."
Steve winced at the words, knowing that they were only too true. But
a man who wishes to escape must act the part he has selected to the
utmost of his ability, and he did so promptly.
"You are right, Jean," he said. "It is only a little thing. Some food
has upset me. In a little while I shall be better. You are a good
fellow to come so quickly. Now leave me, for I think I can sleep, and
perhaps later the sentries will allow me to have some exercise."
"Truly, monsieur. They are asking kindly after you already, for
monsieur is a favourite. I will go to them, and you will walk when you
feel inclined."
He went out of the room, closed the door, and slipped silently down
the passage.
"He is better," he cried gaily as he came to the guard-house.
"Monsieur makes light of his pains. Another would be groaning and
groaning, till one would imagine he was on the point of death. But our
prisoner sips his milk and asks to sleep, so that he may trouble no
one. Ah, yes, and he wishes to know if he may walk in the courtyard
later, just to exercise, you understand."
"Certainly," came the answer. "Let monsieur walk if he wishes, though
one would have thought that it would have been better were he to keep
his bed till to-morrow. But there, these English are strange. They
walk and walk, just for exercise as they say. Surely a man is better
and lives longer when he rests, and rests often."
Steve did not long remain on his couch. In a little while he was
seated at the table with which he had been provided, and was engaged
in writing. To the commandant he scribbled a few lines thanking him
for his constant courtesy and kindness, and stating deliberately that
he was tired of being a prisoner, and intended to escape if possible.
Then he wrote a short note for his servant, enclosing a handsome
amount of money and many thanks for his attention. Also he gave him
instructions to make his adieus to a number of friends in the garrison.
"Now I am ready," he thought. "It is dark now, and must be about
seven o'clock. I shall wait till ten, and then go out. If they are
suspicious I will return and then creep out again."
He threw himself on his bed and dozed for a long while, till a step
outside roused him. He sat up then to find Jean standing over his
couch.
"Monsieur is better?" he asked. "Then he will sleep, and to-morrow I
will come later than usual to rouse him. Monsieur has no pain?"
"Pain! You are a wonderful physician," answered Steve heartily. "I
declare that I never felt better in all my life. What is the night
like, Jean?"
"Fine, monsieur, but somewhat dark. It is also crisp, and cold for
this time of the year."
"Then it is just the night to brace me up. I shall have a stroll,
Jean, and then turn in. Yes, wake me late to-morrow, and, by the way,
I am hungry."
Jean was delighted with his master, and promptly produced food.
"You are a strange person, monsieur," he said with a grin of
satisfaction. "You are ill and in great pain at one moment, and then,
behold! after a little sleep you are well again and wish to eat and to
walk."
"You forget. There was the warm milk, and Jean gave it to me," smiled
Steve. "But I am hard. I have roughed it in the forests ever since I
was a little fellow, and have had very little illness."
He sat down at the table and ate a hearty meal. Then he lit his pipe
and strolled into the courtyard, passing a few words with the sentries.
"He is a fine young fellow, this monsieur," said one, to his comrade,
when Steve had passed on. "If all are like him we shall have but a
poor chance. Jacques, can you tell me why it is that our prisoner has
never attempted an escape?"
"Perhaps he is afraid, comrade. Men have been shot for that in the
last few months."
"Afraid! Not he!" came the answer. "It is this way, Jacques. Monsieur
is a man of honour, though he is only a youngster. He has been on
parole up till lately, and that is why he has made no attempt. As
to why he does not go now, well, I will give you the reason. He is
no fool, comrade. Understand that. He is no fool, I say, for he
knows that the sentries here are old soldiers and keep a good watch.
Besides, could a cat escape from this place, and if it did, where
is it to go? Nowhere! Unless a prisoner is tired of life and throws
himself into the river. That would be better than to be butchered
by the red villains whom we have hanging about the place. Tobacco,
Jacques? Help yourself, but be gentle, please, for I have but my
slender pay and allowances, and a smoke is a luxury."
They stood together chatting for a while, and then separated to patrol
the courtyard, passing Steve on each occasion and noticing that he was
walking up and down rapidly, as was often his custom.
"_Vraiment!_ These English make me smile," laughed one of the men, as
he met his comrade opposite the guard-house. "One would think that
monsieur earned his rations by walking this place. Now, if I were
he----"
"You would draw the rations first and sleep, leaving another to do
the walking," was the laughing answer. "Peste take these English.
It is because they are so energetic that they still keep up their
opposition. Others would have given in long ago after suffering so
many defeats."
They stood together chatting for a time, their talk turning upon the
surrender of Fort William Henry and the massacre which followed. Then
they shook their heads and agreed that such a catastrophe would have
ruined their own cause, while, strangely enough, it had made the enemy
even more determined.
And while they chatted Steve gradually approached the wall, and
finally halted at the spot where Silver Fox had given his signal. It
was absolutely dark down below, and though he peered into the black
shadows, even his trained eyes failed to see any object. He was in the
act of withdrawing his head when there was a movement below, and the
faint bark of a dog. Then someone whispered.
"Steve? Is that you, lad? Then catch this tackle."
Something swished in the air, a bright object shot up from the black
abyss, and the prisoner gripped an iron hook, to which a stout rope
was attached. To place the hook in position was the work of a second,
and within a minute he was down at the bottom of the wall, with his
hand gripped firmly in that of his father.
"Come. They will discover that you are gone in a very few seconds
perhaps, and then there will be a noise. Ah! The sentries are calling."
Steve clutched at his father's sleeve, and allowed himself to be led
away through the darkness. They ran along the narrow path, darted out
into one of the roads which ascend the cliff, and soon afterwards were
making their way along another path.
"They're at it! Listen to 'em shoutin'."
Steve suddenly heard a well-remembered voice speaking a foot or two
behind him, and with a gasp of surprise realised that Hunting Jim was
one of the party. But he had no time to greet him, and, indeed, little
opportunity of doing so, for Judge Mainwaring hurried him on at a
rapid pace, shouts from the fort having plainly shown them that the
escape was already discovered. In fact, the sentries who had been so
eagerly discussing the English nation and their idiotic absurdities,
as they were pleased to call several of their customs, were smart
fellows, in spite of all their chatter. Steve had been gone less than
a minute when one of the men became suspicious.
"_Ma foi_, but I believe this monsieur has given us the slip already,"
he suddenly exclaimed. "I cannot see him. Jacques, get along and
report if he is there."
The last-named ran along the courtyard, and presently his voice was
heard. "He is nowhere to be seen," he cried. "Had we not better fire
so as to give the alarm?"
"Fire! And so wake the whole garrison! Not for worlds. Get across to
monsieur's quarters, and report if he is there. It is possible that he
entered while our backs were turned."
It was not long ere the sentry returned with the news that Steve's
room was empty, and then, indeed, the alarm was sounded. The sentries
shouted to the sergeant of the guard, and the sergeant, having
promptly turned his guard out and interrogated the sentries, roused
the officer in command of the fort. A cannon was then fired, a signal
agreed upon beforehand to mean that a prisoner had escaped, and very
soon the garrison was acquainted of the fact.
"Now to the left," whispered Steve's father when they had run the
better part of a mile and were on the outskirts of the city. "That is
excellent. We are now on the plains of Abraham, and in a little while
should be in safety."
Breaking into a fast walk, the fugitives kept straight ahead for
another mile, till they came to a dip in the ground. There was the
reflection of a fire hanging over the dip, and presently Steve caught
sight of a native wigwam of large proportions. His father gave a cry
of delight, and in a few seconds they were all inside. A smothered
greeting welcomed them, and at once Steve was gripping the many hands
held out to him, for there were now seven persons crowded into the
wigwam, and a lantern which hung to one of the roof poles shone on
their painted faces, and enabled the rescued prisoner to see them. Not
that he easily recognised these friends, for they were all heavily
daubed with paint and decked out in all the feathers and finery of
the Huron Indians. However, he was sure of his father, the huge,
raw-boned chief who stood beside him, holding him affectionately by
the shoulder, for the voice betrayed him at once. But for that, Steve
would have passed him by without recognition, for the Judge had shaved
his beard, and now presented a smooth face, than which there was none
more noticeable for the power and reserve which it expressed.
"You ain't forgot me, Cap'n, I hope," burst in one of the men, painted
hideously to represent a fox. "You ain't quite forgot Pete, as took up
quarters with yer 'way back thar down by Lake St. George."
"Nor me, if ye plaze, Masther Steve, Cap'n, beggin' yer honour's
pardon," said someone else, pushing to the front and holding out a
huge paw, which was painted now, but which at other times was freckled
and tanned to a colour that matched that of an Indian. It was Mac, a
grin stretching from ear to ear, clean shaven, and with his brilliant
locks cut back to form the conventional scalp lock of the Hurons,
and dyed; yes, Mac boasted hair of the blackest jet now, and but for
his speech, his huge grin, and his squat, powerful figure, was quite
unrecognisable.
"You've took the Cap'n aback," cried Jim, pushing Mac aside. "It ain't
likely as he'd recognise an old pal in a beauty sich as you air. Why,
Mac, you was never so good-lookin' in all yer life before, and ef
you'll take a bit of advice from me, why, you'll stick where yer air.
Jest take to bein' a brave for the rest of yer natural existence."
That brought a still wider grin to the broad face before Steve, a grin
which seemed to sever it into two complete portions, and which showed
a most excellent set of teeth.
"Bad scran to ye now, Huntin' Jim, ef I don't take ye by the neck
this instant and scalp ye. 'Tis yerself that's uncommon handsome
to-day. Stand up and let the Cap'n see ye."
He retired into the background, and gave Steve an opportunity of
setting eyes on the tall trapper who had been such a staunch friend.
He, too, was decked as an Indian, and in his case the disguise was
perhaps even more natural than in that of the others. For Jim was
tall and wiry. He was trained by constant wanderings in the forest
to the very last ounce, and his muscles, though small and not of
Mac's proportions, stood out like whipcord. Then, too, his sharp and
intelligent features helped in the deception, while the habits which
this old hunter had learned in the fifty years of his busy life had
given him that imperturbable look common to the Indians.
"You was never so surprised in all yer life, Cap'n, I reckon," he
said. "You was mighty sick of roostin' up there in the fort, and no
doubt thinkin' of having a turn for liberty yerself. Then Silver Fox
come into the fort, and I'll bet what yer like that he walked about as
ef he'd been thar many a time, and as ef he wasn't on no account to be
hurried. He's that cool, he's like an icicle."
"He is a gallant fellow, and I thank him. Chief, I owe a lot to you as
well as to these other friends. But who is the stranger?"
A tall Indian had stood in the background looking on at the scene with
a half-suppressed air of contempt on his finely chiselled features,
for your Indian could not understand the need for such warmth and
such hand-shakings over a meeting. Silver Fox beckoned to him.
"This is my brother, Hawk," he said, "this is Flying Bird, a Mohawk
once, and later a Huron. He is now again one of our tribe."
"And thereby hangs the tale of your release, my boy," broke in Mr.
Mainwaring. "The story is soon told. This Flying Bird was born in the
same wigwam as our old friend Silver Fox, and would have been there
to this day had not the village been raided. The Hurons made a sudden
descent, and Flying Bird was carried away. He was then seventeen, and
almost a brave. He was spared, and became one of the Hurons, marrying
into the tribe. Now he has lost his wife, and taking advantage of the
fact that the Hurons were marching into the country adjacent to that
in which the Mohawks lived, he made a journey to find Silver Fox. He
came in the nick of time. I had just returned to find you a prisoner,
and the band of scouts which you had formed near Fort William Henry
about to be disbanded. They had been fortunate in escaping from the
fort before the surrender, and of course there was little left for
them to do.
"Well, we made plans to meet again at the breaking of the winter, and
two months ago we gathered at Silver Fox's village. His brother had
returned to Canada for the cold months, so as to allay suspicion, and
we fell in with him ten days ago south of the St. Lawrence. As to how
we reached that part, why, the movements of our troops are beginning
to worry the French, and they are concentrating at the threatened
places, leaving the upper reaches of the Richelieu and the country
to the west of that river almost denuded of trappers and Indians. We
slipped through, and----"
"And here you are, father. What is the next move?"
"We wait here for a week perhaps, till the hue and cry for you is
over. Then we take to the river, capture some sort of craft, and sail
for Nova Scotia."
Everything had, in fact, been carefully mapped out, and so far the
plans of the rescue party had gone without a hitch. But there was
a great deal still to be done, and many dangers would have to be
faced before Steve and his friends could hope to reach safety again.
However, they were not the men to flinch at the thought of danger.
Indeed, they rather enjoyed the prospect and the novelty of their
present position, and on the following morning eagerly scanned the
city and its neighbourhood for signs of searchers.
"Fortunately for us they have very few Indians at their beck and call
just now," said Mr. Mainwaring, "for they have sent them down to
Ticonderoga and to the country about Louisbourg. There are a few lazy
fellows still remaining, the ne'er-do-wells of the various tribes, and
there is of course this small party of Hurons."
He smiled at Steve, and proceeded.
"You see, there was need for a party to lie close to Quebec, for it
would have been impossible to spirit you away from the city in the few
hours we had at our disposal. You will see why shortly, for the river
will swarm with canoes, and what Indians there are will be sent off
in search of your tracks. We had to have some arrangement whereby we
could take up our quarters near the city, and Jim settled the matter
very quickly."
"Thar warn't nothin' in it," growled the trapper. "We wanted to lie up
here, and Flyin' Bird gave us the word that all the redskin varmint
was off to other parts. Waal, Cap'n, we fixed it up that we should
be a kind of deputation of Injuns from the Huron tribe come back to
complain of the favouritism shown to other redskins. That air a likely
tale, for these braves air always rowin' among theirselves. Flyin'
Bird's seen the commandant, they've had a palaver. We're here waitin'
for a proper palaver with this officer, and I reckon when he's ready
we won't be so anxious to get our grievance to his ears. But there
ain't no hurry. The French know how to deal with redskins, and they've
larned long ago that time ain't anythin', that ef yer hurry matters
yer show unnatural weakness and anxiety. So this officer'll wait a
while, and when he sends, he won't find no one to greet him."
"And meanwhile we are fairly safe from interference," chimed in Mr.
Mainwaring. "The Hurons are accustomed to stand aloof from other
braves, and therefore we are hardly likely to have visitors. If some
come, Flying Bird will entertain them."
Daylight showed that the authorities at Quebec were determined to
retake their late prisoner if possible. Canoes filled with soldiers
and trappers swarmed on the river, and the steep shore all along on
either side of the city was closely scrutinised. Then a strong party
was sent out along the banks of the St. Charles river, for that was a
likely direction for a fugitive to take. Once a party of trappers even
came to the Huron wigwam lying in the hollow.
"We seek a pale face who has broken away from the city," said their
spokesman, addressing Flying Bird, who alone appeared to meet them.
"Have you seen traces of him. He broke away last night."
"Then his trail will have been stamped out by the coming and going of
the people," was the curt answer. "Here, however, there may be traces,
my brothers. I have not looked for them, but if they are here surely
you who are accustomed to the forest and the trail should be able to
discover them. For us, we are resting. We require favours before we
will help your countrymen."
Flying Bird remained seated all the while, smoking placidly. The
Frenchmen stared at him doubtfully, muttered words beneath their
breath, and moved away.
"Let the dog sit there and rot if he will," growled
[Illustration: "WE SEEK A PALE FACE WHO HAS BROKEN AWAY FROM THE
CITY"]
one. "These Indians are either completely out of control, and far too
eager even for our hot bloods, or they are sulky and will not stir a
finger. Let the dog sit and smoke."
They moved away in none of the best tempers, for these trappers and
the French in general were more than beginning to see that the price
they had to pay for the use of their numerous tribes of ruthless
savages would prove heavy in the end. Already they knew that it had
roused the British from their apathy. There were tales even then in
Quebec that the backwoodsman and the regular who fought for England
had a new battle cry, that bayonets were more vengeful and terrible
than ever before.
A week later the hue and cry had died down, and the party made ready
to escape. Flying Bird sauntered off towards Quebec early in the
morning, his musket over his shoulder, and a fishing line strung to
his belt. Entering a canoe down by the stage, he paddled out into the
river, rounded the promontory to the west of Quebec, and sent his
craft along parallel to the steep cliff, at the top of which lay the
Plains of Abraham. His comrades above saw him occasionally, for he had
paddled to the far shore, and was diligently fishing. He was there at
dusk, and those who had the curiosity to look at him from the city saw
that he was pulling up his line and preparing to return home.
"It will be dark by the time he is over this side of the river," said
Steve's father, "and by that time we shall be near him. You can find
this trail, Silver Fox?"
"On the darkest night, Chief."
"Then we will go. Pick up your traps, boys."
The party filed out of the wigwam, leaving their late home standing,
and, with the Indian leading, strode off towards the edge of the
cliff. Steve had been decked as a Huron, and he took his place
third in the line. They reached the edge, and without the smallest
hesitation the Indian chief scrambled over it.
"Be careful, brothers," he cautioned them. "The way is steep. A fall
would end in death."
One by one in quick succession they lowered themselves over the edge,
and gripping boulders and grass and the roots of bushes, finally
reached the bank below. The canoe was there, and they stepped into it
silently. Jim pushed off from the shore, and in a little while they
were shooting down the centre of the river, hidden in the darkness,
from which they watched a hundred and more twinkling lights which
glimmered from the windows of the fairy city of Quebec.