000
ОтложитьЧитал
CHAPTER XI.
THE BIG THROAT SPEAKS
The light of the rising sun struggled through the mist that lay on the Onondaga Valley. The trees came slowly out of the gray air, like ships approaching through a fog. As the sun rose higher, each leaf glistened with dew. The grass was wet and shining.
Menard had seized a few hours of sleep. He awoke with the first beam of yellow light, and rose from his bed on the packed, beaten ground before the door. Father Claude was sitting on a log, at a short distance, with bowed head. The Captain stretched his stiff limbs, and walked slowly about until the priest looked up.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, M’sieu.”
“It was a selfish thought that led me to choose the earlier watch. These last hours are the best for sleeping.”
“No, I have rested well.”
“And Mademoiselle?”
“I have heard no sound. I think that she still sleeps.”
“Softly, then. There has been no disturbance?”
“None. The singing has died down during the last hour. There, you can hear it, M’sieu.”
“Yes. But it is only a few voices. It must be that the others are sleeping off the liquor. They will soon awaken.”
“Listen.”
A musket was fired, and another.
“That is the signal.”
The song, which one group after another had taken up all through the night, rose again and grew in volume as one at a time the sleepers aroused and joined the dance. The only sign of the fire was a pillar of thin smoke that rolled straight upward in the still air.
“Father,” said Menard, “are the guards about?”
“I have not seen them. I suppose they are wandering within call.”
“Then, quickly, before we are seen, help me with this log.”
“I do not understand, M’sieu.”
“Into the hut with it, and the others, there. If a chance does come,–well, it may be that we shall yet be reduced to holding the hut. These will serve to barricade the door.”
They were not disturbed while they rolled the short logs within and piled them at one side of the door, where they could not be seen from the path.
“Quietly, Father,” whispered the Captain. He knew that the maid lay sleeping, back among the shadows. “And the presents,–you have packed them away?”
“In my bundle, M’sieu. They will not be harmed.”
They returned to the open air, and looked about anxiously for signs of a movement toward the hut; but the irregular street was silent. Here and there, from the opening in the roof of some low building of bark and logs, rose a light smoke.
“They are all at the dance,” said Menard. His memory supplied the picture: the great fire, now sunk to heaps of gray ashes, spread over the ground by the feet of those younger braves who had wished to show their hardihood by treading barefoot on the embers; the circle of grunting figures, leaning forward, hatchet and musket in hand, moving slowly around the fire with a shuffling, hopping step; the outer circle of sitting or lying figures, men, women, and children, drunken, wanton, quarrelsome, dreaming of the blood that should be let before the sun had gone; and at one side the little group of old men, beating their drums of wood and skin with a rhythm that never slackened.
The song grew louder, and broke at short intervals into shouts and cries, punctuated with musket-shots.
“They are coming, M’sieu.”
The head of the line, still stepping in the slow movement of the dance, appeared at some distance up the path. The Long Arrow was in front, in full war-paint, and wearing the collar of wampum beads. Beside him was the Beaver. The line advanced, two and two, steadily toward the lodge of the white men.
Menard leaned against the door-post and watched them. His figure was relaxed, his face composed.
“Here are the doctors, Father.”
A group of medicine men, wildly clad in skins of beasts and reptiles, with the heads of animals on their shoulders, came running along beside the line, leaping high in the air, and howling.
Menard turned to the priest. “Father, which shall it be,–shall we fight?”
“I do not know, M’sieu. We have no weapons, and it may be, yet, that the Big Throat–”
“Yes, I know.”
“And there is the maid, M’sieu.”
For the first time since the sunrise the quiet expression left the Captain’s face. He was silent for a moment. Then he said:–
“I will go, Father. You must protect her. If anything–if they should dare to touch her, you will–?”
“I will fight them, M’sieu.”
“Thank you.” Menard held out his hand. They gripped in silence, and turned again toward the Indians, who were now but a hundred yards away.
“They will stop in a moment,” said Menard, “and form for the gantlet. Yes,–see, the Long Arrow holds up his hands.” He stood irresolute, looking at the fantastic picture; then he stepped back into the hut.
The maid lay in her blanket on the bench. He stood over her, looking at the peaceful face that rested on her outstretched arm. He took her hand, and said gently:–
“Mademoiselle.”
She stirred, and slowly opened her eyes; she did not seem surprised that he should be there clasping tightly her slender hand. He wondered if he had been in her dreams.
“Good-bye, Mademoiselle.”
“You–you are going, M’sieu?”
“Yes.”
She looked up at him with half-dazed eyes. She was not yet fully awake.
“You must not fear,” he said. “They cannot hurt you. You will soon be safe at–at Frontenac.”
She was beginning to understand. Then all at once the light came into her eyes, and she clung to his arm, which was still wet with the dew.
“You are not going? They will not take you? Oh, M’sieu, I cannot–you must not!”
She would have said more, but he bent down and kissed her forehead. Then, with his free hand he unclasped her fingers and went away. At the door he turned. She was sitting on the bench, gazing after him with a look that he never forgot. For all of the unhappiness, the agony, that came to him from those eyes, it was with a lighter heart that he faced the warriors who rushed to seize him.
Every brave, woman, and child that the village could supply was in the double line that stretched away from a point on the path not a hundred yards distant to the long council house, which stood on a slight rise of ground. They were armed with muskets, clubs, knives,–with any instrument which could bruise or, mutilate the soldier as he passed, and yet leave life in him for the harder trials to follow. Five warriors, muskets in hand, had come to the hut. They sprang at Menard as he stepped out through the doorway, striking him roughly and holding his elbows behind his back.
A shout went up from the waiting lines, and muskets and clubs were waved in the air. The Captain stepped forward briskly with head erect, scorning to glance at the braves who walked on either side. He knew that they would not kill him in the gantlet; they would save him for the fire. He had passed through this once, he could do it again, conscious that every moment brought nearer the chance of a rescue by the Big Throat. Perhaps twenty paces had been covered, and his guardians were prodding him and trying to force him into a run, when he heard a shout from the priest, and then the sounds of a struggle at the hut. He turned his head, but a rude hand knocked it back. Again he heard the priest’s voice, and this time, with it, a woman’s scream.
The Captain hesitated for a second. The warriors prodded him again, and before they could raise their arms he had jerked loose, snatched a musket from one, and swinging it around his head, sent the two to the ground, one with a cracked skull. Before those in the lines could fairly see what had happened, he was running toward the hut with two captured muskets and a knife. In front of the hut the three other Indians were struggling with Father Claude, who was fighting in a frenzy, and the maid. She was hanging back, and one redskin had crushed her two wrists together in his hand and was dragging her.
Menard was on them with a leap. They did not see him until a musket whirled about their ears, and one man fell, rolling, at the maid’s feet.
“Back into the hut!” he said roughly, and she obeyed. As he turned to aid the priest he called after her, “Pile up the logs, quick!”
She understood, and with the strength that came with the moment, she dragged the logs to the door.
Menard crushed down the two remaining Indians as he would have crushed wild beasts, without a glance toward the mob that was running at him, without a thought for the gash in his arm, made first by an arrow at La Gallette and now reopened by a knife thrust. The Father, too, was wounded, but still he could fight. There was but a second more. The Captain threw the four muskets into the hut, and after them the powder-horns and bullet-pouches which he had barely time to strip from the dead men. Then he crowded the priest through the opening above the logs, and came tumbling after. Another second saw the logs piled close against the door, while a shower of bullets and arrows rattled against them.
“Take a musket, Father. Now, fire together! Quick, the others! Can you load these, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes.” She reached for them, and poured the powder down the barrels.
“Not too much, Mademoiselle. We may run short.”
“Yes, M’sieu.”
To miss a mark in that solid mob would have been difficult. The first four shots brought down three men, and sent another limping away with a bleeding foot.
“Keep it up, Father! Don’t wait an instant. Fast, Mademoiselle, fast! Ah, there’s one more. See, they are falling back. Take the other wall, Father. See that they do not come from the rear.”
The priest ran about the hut, peering through the chinks.
“I see nothing,” he called.
“You had better stay there, then. Keep a close watch.”
The maid laid two loaded muskets at the Captain’s side.
“Can we hold them off, M’sieu?”
His eye was pressed to an opening, and he did not turn.
“I fear not, Mademoiselle. A few minutes more may settle it. But we can give them a fight.”
“If they come again, will you let me shoot, M’sieu?”
He turned in surprise, and looked at her slight figure.
“You, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes; I can help. I have shot before.”
He laughed, with the excitement of the moment, and nodded. Then they were silent. She knelt by his side and looked through another opening. The women and children had retreated well up the path. The warriors were crowded together, just out of range, talking and shouting excitedly. A moment later a number of these slipped to the rear and ran off between the huts.
“What does that mean, M’sieu? Will they come around behind?”
“Yes. Watch out, Father. You will hear from them soon.”
“Very well, M’sieu. It will be hard. There are trees and bushes here for cover.”
Menard shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. Time was all he wished.
“If the Big Throat started with the first light, he should be here before another hour,” he said to the maid, who was watching the Indians.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Is there any corn in the basket, Mademoiselle?”
“I think so. I had forgotten.”
“We shall need it. Wait; I will look.”
He got the basket, and brought it to her.
“There is no time for cooking, but you had better eat what you can. And keep a close watch.”
“Here, M’sieu.” She spread her skirt, and he poured out half of the corn.
“You give me too much. You must not.”
He laughed, and crossed to the priest, saying over his shoulder:–
“Mademoiselle is our new recruit. And the recruit must not complain of her food. I cannot allow it.”
The moments passed with no sign of action along the line of redskins on the path. They were quieter since the flanking party had started. To Menard it was evident that a plan had been settled upon. In a like position, a dozen Frenchmen would have stormed the hut, knowing that only two or three could fall before they were under the shelter of the walls; but even a large force of Indians was unwilling to take the chance.
“Father,” called the Captain, “it may be better for you to take the doorway. Mademoiselle and I will watch the forest.”
“Very well, M’sieu.”
The exchange was made rapidly.
“Will you look out at the sides, as well?” Menard said to her. “Keep moving about, and using all the openings. There are too many chances for approach here.”
“If I see one, shall I shoot, M’sieu?”
He smiled. “You had better tell me first.”
She stepped briskly about, peering through the chinks with an alert eye. Menard found it hard to keep his own watch, so eager were his eyes to watch her. But he turned resolutely toward the woods.
“M’sieu!” she whispered. They had been silent for a long time. “To the left in the bushes! It looks like a head.”
“Can you make sure?”
“Yes. It is a head. May I shoot?”
Menard nodded without looking. She rested her musket in the opening between two logs, and fired quickly.
“Did you hit him?”
“Yes, I think so.”
She was breathless with excitement, but she reloaded at once. A moment later Menard fired, and then the priest.
“On all sides, eh?” the Captain muttered. He called to the others: “Waste no powder. Shoot only when you are sure of hitting. They will fall back again. Two dead Indians will discourage the wildest charge.”
The firing went on at intervals, but still the warriors kept at it, creeping up from bush to bush and tree to tree. Menard’s face grew more serious as the time went by. He began to realize that the Long Arrow was desperate, that he was determined on vengeance before the other chiefs could come. It had been a typical savage thought that had led him to bring Menard to this village, where he had once lived, rather than to the one in which the chief held greater permanent authority; the scheme was too complete and too near its end for delay or failure to be considered. Still the attacking party drew nearer, swelled every moment by a new group. Then Menard saw their object. They would soon be near enough to dash in close to the wall, where their very nearness would disable the white men’s muskets.
“Work fast!” he said suddenly. “They must not get nearer!”
“Yes,” panted the maid. Her shoulder was bruised by the heavy musket, her arms ached with the quick ramming and lifting, but she loaded and fired as rapidly as she could.
“Father,” called the Captain. “Quick! come here. They are too many for me!”
The priest ran across the floor, half blinded by the smoke, cocking his musket as he came. “Where, M’sieu?”
“There–at the oak! They are preparing for a rush!”
He fired, at the last word, and one warrior sprawled on his face. The priest followed.
“That will check them. Now back to the door!”
Father Claude turned. The light was dim and the smoke heavy. His eyes smarted and blurred, so that he heard, rather than saw, the logs come crashing back into the hut. Menard heard it also; and together the two men dashed forward. They met the rush of Indians with blows that could not be stayed, but there was a score pushing behind the few who had entered. Slowly, the two backed across the hut. The stock of Menard’s musket broke short off against the head of the Beaver. His foot struck another, and he snatched it up and fought on.
“Mademoiselle,” he called, “where are you?”
“Here, M’sieu!”
The voice was behind him. Then he felt a weight on his shoulder. The wearied maid, for want of another rest for her musket, fired past his face straight into the dark mass of Indians. She tried to reload, but Menard was swept back against her. With one arm he caught and held her tight against him, swinging the musket with his free hand. She clung to him, hardly breathing. They reached the rear wall. One tall warrior bounded forward and struck the musket from his hand. That was the end of the struggle. They were torn apart, and dragged roughly out into the blinding sunlight.
Among the Iroquois, the torture was a religious rite, which nothing, once it was begun, could hasten. It may have been that the younger warriors would have rushed upon the captives to kill them; but if so, their elders held them back. The long lines formed again, and the doctors ran about the little group before the hut door, leaping and singing. Menard lay on his face, held down by three warriors. He tried to turn his head to see what had been done with the maid, but could not. He would have called to her, but to make a sound now would be to his captors an admission of weakness.
A great clamour came from the lines. Menard wondered at the delay. He heard a movement a few yards away. Warriors were grunting, and feet shuffled on the ground. He heard the priest say, in a calm voice, “Courage, Mademoiselle”; and for a moment he struggled desperately. Then, realizing his mistake, he lay quiet. When at last he was jerked to his feet, he saw that the priest and the maid had been forced to take the two first places in the line. The maid was struggling in the grasp of two braves, one of whom made her hold a war club by closing his own hand over hers. Menard understood; his friends were to strike the first blows.
The guards tried to drag him forward, but he went firmly with them, smiling scornfully. There was a delay, as the line was reached, for the maid could not be made to hold the club. Another man dropped out of the line to aid the two who held her.
“Strike me, Mademoiselle,” said Menard. “It is best.”
She shook her head. Father Claude spoke:–
“M’sieu is right.”
It was then that she first looked at the Captain. When she saw the straight figure and the set face, a sense of her own weakness came to her, and she, too, straightened. Menard stepped forward; and raising the club she let it fall lightly on his shoulders. A shout went up.
“Hard, Mademoiselle, hard,” he said. “You must.”
She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes, and swung the club with all her strength. Then her muscles gave way, and she sank to the ground, not daring to look after the Captain as he passed on between the two rows of savages. She heard the shouts and the wild cries, but dimly, as if they came from far away. The confusion grew worse, and then died down. From screaming the voices dropped into excited argument. She did not know what it meant,–not until Father Claude bent over her and spoke gently.
“What is it?” she whispered, not looking up. “What have they done?”
“Nothing. The Big Throat has come.”
She raised her eyes helplessly.
“He has come?”
“Yes. I must go back. Take heart, Mademoiselle.”
He hurried away and slipped through the crowd that had gathered about Menard and the chief. She sat in a little heap on the ground, not daring to feel relieved, wondering what would come next. She could not see the Captain, but as the other voices dropped lower and lower, she could catch now and then a note of his voice. In a few moments, the warriors who were pressing close on the outskirts of the crowd were pushed aside, and he came out. She looked at him, then at the ground, shuddering, for there was blood on his forehead. Even when he stood over her she could not look up or speak.
“There is hope now, Mademoiselle. He is here.”
“Yes–Father Claude told me. Is–are you to be released?”
“Hardly that, but we shall at least have a little time. And I hope to get a hearing at the council.”
“He will let you?”
“I have not asked him yet.” He sat beside her, wearily. “There will be time for that. He is talking now with the Long Arrow and the old warriors. He is not fond of the Long Arrow.” In the excitement he had not seen that she was limp and exhausted, but now he spoke quickly, “They have hurt you, Mademoiselle?”
“No, I am not hurt. But you–your head–”
“Only a bruise.” He drew his sleeve across his forehead. “I had rather a bad one in the arm.”
He rolled up his sleeve in a matter-of-fact way. Her eyes filled.
“Oh, M’sieu, you did not tell me. I can help you. Wait, I will be back.”
She rose, and started toward the spring, but he sprang to her side.
“You must not trouble. It is not bad. There will be time for this.”
“No. Come with me if you will.”
She ran with nervous steps; and he strode after. At the side of the bubbling pool she knelt, and looked up impatiently.
“It will not do to let this go, M’sieu. Can you roll your sleeve higher?”
He tried, but the heavy cloth was stiff.
“If you will take off the coat–”
He unlaced it at the breast, and drew it off. She took his wrist, and plunged his arm into the pool, washing it with quick, gentle fingers, drying it on his coat. Then she leaned back, half perplexed, and looked around.
“What is it?”
“A cloth. No,”–as he reached for his coat;–“that is too rough. Here, M’sieu,–” she tore a strip from her skirt, and wrapped it around the forearm. “Hold it with your other hand, just a moment.”
She hurried to the hut, and returning with needle and thread, stitched the bandage. Then she helped him on with his coat, and they walked slowly to the hut.
“Where is Father Claude?” she asked.
He pointed to a thicket beyond the hut. There, kneeling by the body of a dying Indian, was the priest, praying silently. He had baptized the warrior with dew from the leaves at his side, and now was claiming his soul for the greater King in whose service his own life had been spent.
The Captain sat beside the maid, their backs to the logs, and watched the shifting groups of warriors. He told her of the arrival of the Big Throat, and of the confusion that resulted. Then for a time they were silent, waiting for the impromptu council to reach a conclusion. The warriors finally began to drift away, though the younger and more curious ones still hung about. A group of braves came slowly toward the hut.
“That is the Big Throat in front,” said Menard. “The broad-shouldered warrior beside him is the Talking Eagle, the best-known chief of the clan of the Bear. They are almost here. We had better stand. Are you too tired?”
“No, indeed.”
Father Claude had seen the group approaching, and he joined Menard. The Big Throat stood motionless and looked at the Captain.
“My brother, the Big Buffalo, has asked to speak with the Big Throat,” he said at length.
Menard bowed, but did not reply.
“He asks for his release,–and for the holy man and the squaw?”
“The Big Buffalo asks nothing save what the chiefs of the Onondagas would give to a chief taken in battle. The Long Arrow has lied to the Big Buffalo. He has soiled his hands with the blood of women and holy Fathers. The Big Buffalo was told by Onontio, whom all must obey, to come to the Onondagas and give them his word. The Long Arrow was impatient. He would not let him journey in peace. He wished to injure him; to let his blood. Now the Big Buffalo is here. He asks that he may be heard at the council, to give the chief the word of Onontio. That is all.”
The Big Throat’s face was inscrutable. He looked at Menard without a word until the silence grew tense, and the maid caught her breath. Then he said, with the cool, diplomatic tone that concealed whatever kindness or justice may have prompted the words:–
“The Big Buffalo shall be heard at the council to-night. The chiefs of the Onondagas never are deaf to the words of Onontio.”