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CHAPTER XVI.
AT THE LONG LAKE
Menard again dropped to sleep. When the day had nearly reached its middle, he was aroused by two warriors, who pulled him roughly to his feet. The band had evidently been astir for some moments. A few braves were extinguishing the fire with clumps of sod, while the others packed in their blankets what had been left from the morning meal, or looked to the spots of rust which the damp had brought to knives and muskets. The Long Arrow came over to inspect the thongs that held Menard’s wrists; he had not forgotten his attack on his guards on the morning of the torture. And with a precaution that brought a half smile to the prisoner’s face, he posted a stout warrior on each side, in addition to those before and behind. Then they set out over the hills, wading through a great tumbling meadow where their feet sank deep into the green and yellow and white that June had spread over the open lands of the Iroquois. Overhead the sky, though still clouded, was breaking, giving little glimpses of clear blue.
As they neared the crest of the first hill, the Captain looked back over his shoulder. The sun had at last broken through to the earth, and a great band of yellow light was moving swiftly across the valley. Before it, all the ground was sombre in its dark green and its heavy moisture; behind lay a stretch of golden sunshine, rounding over the farther hills in great billows of grass and flowers and clustering trees, glistening with dew and glowing with the young health of the summer. Up the hillside came the sunlight; and then in a moment it had passed them, and the air was warm and sweet.
Menard looked at the sun and then back across the valley to get his direction. He saw that the party was moving a little to the south of west. This line of march should take them through the Cayuga country,–a natural move on the part of the Long Arrow, for the Cayugas were closer to the scene of the fighting than the Onondagas, and therefore would be less likely to interfere with the persecution of a Frenchman, particularly before their chiefs should return from the council.
Late in the afternoon they came to a slow-moving stream, the outlet of an inland lake. By the basin-shape of the end of the lake, he recognized it as one that lay directly between Onondaga and the Long Lake of the Cayugas. On the bank of the little river, under the matted foliage, the chief signalled a halt, and the warriors threw themselves on the ground. Menard lay at the foot of a beech whose roots dipped in the water, and for the hundredth time since the sun had risen he cast about for some chance at escape. The thongs about his wrists were tied by skilful hands. He tried to reach the knot with his fingers, but could not. His guards were alert to every motion; they lay on either side, and he could not lift his eyes without meeting the sullen glance of one or the other. He was about ready to submit, trusting to his wits to seize the first opportunity that should come; for after all, to worry would strain his nerves, and now, if at any time, his nerves and his strength were needed. When at last he reached this point of view, he lay back on the weed-grown earth and went to sleep.
An hour later he was aroused for another start. Night came while they were on the way, but they pushed steadily forward, and within a few hours they reached the Long Lake. Instead of stopping, however, the Long Arrow headed to the south along the bank of the lake. For a space it was hard going through the interwoven bushes and briers that tore even Menard’s tough skin. The moon was in the sky, and here and there he caught glimpses of the lake lying still and bright. They saw no signs of life save for the flitting bats, and the owls that called weirdly through the reaches of the forest. After another hour they found a trail which led them down close to the water, and at last to a half-cleared space, rank and wild with weed and thistle, and with rotting heaps where lay the trunks of trees, felled a generation earlier. Scattered about the outer edge of the clearing, close to the circle of trees, were a few bark huts, with roofs sagging and doors agape. One or two were rivalled in height by the weeds that choked their windows. As Menard stood between his guards under the last tree on the trail, looking at the deserted village where the frightened bats rose and wheeled, and the moonlight streamed on broken roofs, he began to understand. The Long Arrow had found a place where he could carry out his vengeance undisturbed.
Other forms had risen from the weeds to greet the party. Looking more closely, Menard saw that a group of Indians were dragging logs for a fire. Evidently this was a rendezvous for two or more bands. He tried to count the dim forms, and found them somewhat less than a score in all. Perhaps the Long Arrow had found it not easy to raise a large party to defy the will of the council concerning the White Chief; but he had enough, and already the brandy was beginning to flow,–the first stage of the orgie which should take up the rest of the night, and perhaps the day to follow. The Long Arrow and his party at once joined in the drinking. Confident that they would not this time be interrupted, they would probably use all deliberation in preparing for the torture.
A rough meal was soon ready, and all fell to. Nothing was set apart for the prisoner; though had he been weak they would have fed him to stay him for the torture. One of his guardians, in mock pity, threw him a bone to which a little meat clung. He asked that his hands be loosed, or at least tied in front of his body, but his request brought jeers from the little group about him. Seeing that there was no hope of aid, he rolled over and gnawed the bone where it lay on the ground. The warriors laughed again, and one kicked it away; but Menard crawled after it, and this time was not disturbed. A little later, two other Indians came from the fire, and after a talk with his guards, ordered him to his feet and led him to one of the huts. The door was of rude boards, hung on wooden hinges, and now held in place by a short log. One brave kicked away the log, and Menard was thrown inside with such force that he fell headlong.
Through an opening in the roof came a wide beam of moonlight. He looked up, and at first thought he was alone; then he saw two figures crouching against the rear wall. His own face and head were so covered with dust and blood that he could not have been recognized for a white man.
“Who are you?” he said in Iroquois.
“Captain!” came in a startled voice that he knew for Father Claude’s; and a little gasp of relief from the other figure brought a thrill of joy. He tried to raise himself, but in an instant they had come to him and were laughing and sobbing and speaking his name. While Father Claude seized his shoulders to lift him, the maid fell on her knees, and with her teeth tried to cut the thongs.
“Wait, Father,” she said in a mumbled voice, without pausing in her work; “wait a moment.”
Menard could feel her warm tears dropping on his hands.
“You must not, Mademoiselle,” said the priest. “You must let me.”
She shook her head, and worked faster, until the thongs fell away and she could rub with her own torn hands the Captain’s wrists.
“Now he may arise, Father. See–see what they have done to him.”
Menard laughed. All the weight that had pressed on his heart had lifted at the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands. The laugh lingered until he was on his feet, and the three stood close together in the patch of moonlight and looked each into the other’s eyes–not speaking, because there was no word so complete as the relief that had come to them all; a relief so great, and a bond so strong that during all the time they should live thereafter, through other days and other times, even across the seas in lands where much should be about them to draw a mist over the past, the moment would always be close in their memories,–it would stand out above all other deeds and other moments. Then the Captain held out his hands, and they each took one in a long clasp that told them all to hope, that stirred a new, daring thought in each heart. Father Claude at last turned away with shining eyes. The maid stood looking up at this soldier whom she trusted, and a little sigh passed her lips. Then she too turned, and to cover her thoughts she hummed a gay air that Menard had heard the trumpeters play at Quebec.
“Tell us, M’sieu,” she said abruptly, “what is it? How did it happen?”
“It is the Long Arrow.”
“So we thought,” said Father Claude; “but he was not with the party that brought us here, and we could not know. They came while we were sleeping, and bound our mouths so that we could not scream. I was at fault, I–”
“No, Father. You cannot say that. I left you. I should have been at your side.”
“Will you tell us about it, M’sieu?” asked the maid. She was leaning against the bark wall, looking at the two men.
Menard dropped to the ground, and in a quiet voice gave them the story of his capture. The priest rested near him on the broken-down bench that slanted against one wall. As the story grew, the maid came over and sat at the Captain’s feet where she could watch his face as he talked. When he reached the account of the fight at the grave, he paused and looked at her upturned face. Then he went on, but he did not take up the tale where he had dropped it. He could not tell her of Tegakwita’s end. As he went on to the fight with the Long Arrow’s band and the flight through the hill country, he thought that she had missed nothing; but when he had finished she said:–
“And Tegakwita, M’sieu? Did he come with them?”
“No,” Menard replied; “he did not come. I killed him.”
He had not meant to let the words come out so brutally. And now, as he saw the frightened look, almost of horror, come into her eyes, he suffered in a way that would not have been possible before he had known this maid. He read her thoughts,–that she herself was the cause of a double tragedy,–and it for the moment unmanned him. When he could look at her again, she was more nearly herself.
“Go on, M’sieu. There is more?”
“No. There is no more, except that I am here with you. But of yourselves? You have told me nothing.”
“We have told you all there is to tell,” said Father Claude. “We were taken while we slept. They have come rapidly, but otherwise they have not been unkind.”
“You have had food?”
“Yes.”
“We must think now,” Menard said abruptly; “we must put our wits together. It is late in the night, and we should be free before dawn. Have you thought of any way?”
“Yes,” replied the priest, slowly, “we have thought of one. Teganouan is with our party. At the first he tried to keep out of sight, but of course he could not, once we were on the way. He was a long time at the Mission of St. Francis, and I at one time hoped that he would prove a true believer. It was drink that led him away from us,–an old weakness with him. This morning, when he passed me, I knew that he was ashamed. I dared not speak to him; but since then, whenever my eyes have met his, I have seen that look of understanding.”
“I fear you will not see it to-night,” said the Captain. “They are drinking.”
“Ah, but he is not. He is guarding the hut. Come, M’sieu, it may be that we can see him now.”
Menard rose, and with the priest peered through the cracks at the rear of the hut. After a moment they saw him, standing in the shadow of a tree.
“You are sure it is he, Father?”
“Ah, M’sieu, I should know him.”
Menard rested his hand on a strip of rotting bark in the wall. The priest saw the movement.
“Yes,” he said cautiously, “it would be very simple. But you will be cautious, M’sieu. Of course, I do not know–I cannot tell surely–and yet it must be that Teganouan still has a warm heart. It cannot be that he has forgotten the many months of my kindness.”
While they stood there, hesitating between a dozen hasty plans, a light step sounded, and in an instant their eyes were at the opening. A second Indian had joined the guard, and was talking with him in a low voice. Father Claude gripped the Captain’s arm.
“See, M’sieu,–the wampum collar,–it is the Long Arrow.”
Menard laid his finger on his lips. The two Indians were not a dozen yards away. The chief swayed unsteadily as he talked, and once his voice rose. He carried a bottle, and paused now and then to drink from it.
“Teganouan is holding back,” whispered Menard. “See, the Long Arrow has taken his arm–they are coming–is the door fast?”
“We cannot make it fast, M’sieu. It opens outward.”
Menard sprang across to the door and ran his hands over it, but found no projection that could be used to hold it closed. He stood for a moment, puzzling; then his face hardened, and he fell back to where the priest and the maid stood side by side.
“They will get in, M’sieu?”
“Yes. It is better.”
They did not speak again. The moccasined feet made no noise on the cleared ground, and it seemed a long time before they could hear the log fall from the door. There were voices outside. At last the door swung open, and the Long Arrow, bottle in hand, came clumsily into the hut and stood unsteadily in the square of moonlight. He looked about as if he could not see them. Teganouan had come in behind him; and the door swung to, creaking.
“The White Chief is the brother of the Long Arrow,” said the chief, speaking slowly and with an effort to make his words distinct. “He loves the Onondagas. Deep in his mind are the thoughts of the young white brave who lived in our villages and hunted with our braves and called the mighty Big Throat his father. He never forgets what the Onondagas have done for him. He has a grateful heart.” The effort of speaking was confusing to the chief. He paused, as if to collect his ideas, and looked stupidly at the three silent figures before him. “ … grateful heart,” he repeated. “The Long Arrow has a grateful heart, too. He remembers the kind words of the white men who come to his village and tell him of the love of the Great Mountain. He never forgets that the Big Buffalo is his brother–he never forgets. When the Big Buffalo took his son from the hunting party of the Onondagas he did not forget.”
Menard did not listen further. He was looking about the hut with quick, shifting eyes, now at the chief in the moonlight, now at Teganouan, who stood at one side in the shadow, now at the door. Could Teganouan be trusted to help them? He glanced sharply at the warrior, who was looking at his chief with an alert, cunning expression. His musket lay carelessly in the hollow of his arm, his knife and hatchet hung at his waist. The chief had only his knife; in his hand was the bottle, which he held loosely, now and then spilling a few drops of the liquor.
“The Long Arrow nev’r f’rgets,”–the chief’s tongue was getting the better of him. “His house is lonely, where the fire burns alone and the young warr’r who once laid ’s blanket,–laid ’s blanket by the fire, no long’r ’s there to warm the heart of the Long Arrow. But now his loneliness is gone. Now when he comes from the hunt to ’s house he’ll find a new fire, a bright fire, and a new squaw to warm ’s heart–warm ’s heart.” He swayed a little as he spoke, and Teganouan took a short step forward; but the chief drew himself up and came slowly across the patch of moonlight. His eyes were unnaturally bright, and they rolled uncertainly from one to another of the little group before him. His coarse black hair was matted and tangled, and the eagle feathers that at the council had stood erect from his head now drooped, straggling, to one side.
The maid had understood. The two men drew close to her on each side, and her hand rested, trembling, on Menard’s arm. All three were thinking fast. One scream, the sound of a struggle or even of loud voices, would bring upon them the whole drunken band. As the chief approached, the maid could feel the muscles harden on the Captain’s arm.
“Long Arrow’s lonely–his fire’s not bright when he comes from hunt–” Here and there in his talk a few words were distinguishable as he stood lurching before them. He reached out in a maudlin effort to touch the maid’s white face. She drew in her breath quickly and stepped back; then Menard had sprung forward, and she covered her eyes with her hands.
There was a light scuffle, but no other sound. A strong smell of brandy filled the hut. Slowly she lifted her head, and let her hands drop to her sides. The Long Arrow lay sprawling at her feet, his head gashed and bleeding, and covered with broken glass and dripping liquor. The priest had kneeled beside him, and over his bowed head she saw Teganouan, startled, defiant, his musket halfway to his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the door. Her eyes followed his gaze. There stood the Captain, his back to the door, the broken neck of the bottle firmly gripped in his hand.
She stepped forward, too struck with horror to remain silent.
“Oh, M’sieu!” she said brokenly, stretching out her hands.
He motioned to her to be quiet, and she sank down on the bench.
“Father,” he said.
The priest looked up questioningly. There was a long moment of silence, and the shouts and calls of the half-drunken revellers without sounded strangely loud. Then, as the priest gazed at the set, hard face of the Captain, and at the motionless Indian, he understood of a sudden all the wild plan that was forming in the Captain’s mind. He rose slowly to his feet, and stood facing Teganouan, with the light streaming down upon his gentle face.
“The sun has gone to sleep many times, Teganouan, since you left the great white house of the church at St. Francis. You have heard the counsel of evil men, who think only of the knife and the hatchet and the musket, who have no dream but to slay their brothers.” He was speaking slowly and in a kindly voice, as a father might speak to a son who has wandered from the right. “Have you forgotten the talk of the holy Fathers, when they told you the words of the Book of the Great Spirit, who is to all your Manitous and Okis as the sun is to the stars. Have you forgotten the many moons that passed while you lived in the great white house,–when you gave your promise, the promise of an Onondaga, that you would be a friend to the white man, that you would believe the words of the Great Spirit and live a peaceful life? Have you forgotten, Teganouan, the evil days when your enemy, the fire-water, took possession of your heart and led you away from the white house into the lodges of them that do wrong,–how when the good spirit returned to you and you came back to the arms of the Faith, you were received as a son and a brother? The holy Fathers did not say, ‘This warrior has done that which he should not do. Let him be punished. We have no place for the wrongdoer.’ No; they did not say this. They said, ‘The lost is found. He that wandered from the fold has returned.’ And they welcomed the lost one, and bade him repent and lead a right life. Have you forgotten, Teganouan?”
The Indian had slowly lowered his musket.
“Teganouan has not forgotten,” he replied. “He has a grateful heart toward the holy Fathers of the great white house. When he was sick, they brought him their good doctor and told him to live. He believed that the white men were his brothers, that they would do to him as the Fathers had promised. But when Teganouan came to the white men, and asked to be made like they were, he left behind in his village a brother and a sister and a father who said that he was a traitor, who said that he was false to the trust of his blood and his nation, that he was not of their blood.”
“And did he believe them? Did he not know, better than they could, that the faith of the white man is also the faith of the redman; that the love of the white man includes all who breathe and speak and hunt and trade and move upon the earth?”
“Teganouan has not forgotten. He heard the words of the Fathers, and he believed that they were true; but when the white Captain took from the Onondagas five score of their bravest warriors and called them slaves, when he took the brother of Teganouan, borne by the same mother and fed by the same hand, to be a slave of the mighty Chief-Across-the-Water, could he remember what the holy Fathers had said,–that all men were brothers?”
“Teganouan has heard what the White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has said, that the evil man who was treacherous to the Onondagas shall be punished?”
“Teganouan understands. But the evil man is far from the vengeance of the white man. The White Chief is here in our lodges.”
Menard left the door and came to the priest’s side. The jagged piece of glass, his only weapon, he threw to the ground.
“Teganouan,” he said slowly and firmly, looking into the Indian’s eyes, “you heard the great council at the Long House of the Five Nations. You heard the decision of the chiefs and warriors, that they whom Onontio had sent to bring a message of peace should be set free. You have broken the pledge made by your council. You have attacked us and made us prisoners, and brought us here where we may be tortured and killed and none may know. But when the Great Mountain finds that the Big Buffalo has not come back, when he sends his white soldier to the villages of the Onondagas and asks what they have done to him who brought his voice, what will you say? When the chiefs say, ‘We set him free,’ and look about to find the warrior who has dared to disobey the Long House, what will you say? When the young boys and the drunkards with loose tongues have told the story of the death of the Long Arrow, what will you say? Then you will be glad to flee to the white house of the holy Fathers, knowing that they will protect you and save you when the braves of your own blood shall pursue you.”
Teganouan’s eyelids had drooped, and now he was looking at the ground, where the chief lay.
“You will come with me, Teganouan. You will fly with us over the Long Lake, and through the forests and down the mighty rivers and over the inland sea, and there you shall be safe; and you shall see with your own eyes the punishment that the Great Mountain will give to the evil man who has been false to the Onondagas.”
He held out his hand, and silently waited. The priest’s head was raised, and his lips moved slowly in prayer. The maid sat rigid, her hands tightly gripping the edge of the bench. Though he knew that every moment brought nearer the chance of discovery, that the lives of them all hung on a thread as slender as a hair, the Captain stood without the twitching of a muscle, without a sign of fear or haste in his grave, worn face.
The Indian’s eyes wavered. He looked at the fallen chief, at the priest, at Menard; then he took the offered hand. No further word was needed. Menard did not know the thought that lay behind the cunning face; it was enough that the Indian had given his word.
“Quick, we must hide him,” said the Captain, looking swiftly about the hut. “We must disturb you, Mademoiselle–”
In a moment the three men had lifted the body of the Long Arrow and laid it away under the low bench. Teganouan scraped a few handfuls of earth from a corner and spread it over the spot where the chief had been.
“How far is it to the lake, Teganouan?”
“But a few rods.”
“And the forest is thick?”
“Yes.”
“We must cross the lake. Is there a canoe here?”
The Indian shook his head. Menard stood thinking for an instant.
“If you are thinking of me, M’sieu, I think I can swim with you,” said the maid, timidly.
“There is no other way, Mademoiselle. I am sorry. But we will make it as easy as we can.”
He stepped to the rear wall, and with a blow of his fist would have broken an opening through the rotted bank, but the Indian caught his arm.
“It is not necessary. See.” He set rapidly to work, and in a few silent moments he had unlaced the thread-like root that held the sheet of bark in place, and lowered it to the ground. He raised himself by the cross-pole that marked the top of the wall, and slipped through the opening. A few quick glances through the trees, and he turned and beckoned. Menard followed, with the knife of the Long Arrow between his teeth; and with Father Claude’s help the maid got through to where he could catch her and lower her to the ground.
The Indian made a cautious gesture and crept slowly through the yielding bushes. One by one they followed, the Captain lingering until the maid was close to him and he could whisper to her to keep her courage. They paused at the bank of the lake. The water lay sparkling in the moonlight. Menard looked grimly out; this light added to the danger. He found a short log close at hand and carried it to the water.
“Come, Mademoiselle,” he whispered, “and Father Claude. This will support you. Teganouan and I will swim. Keep low in the water, and do not splash or speak. The slightest noise will travel far across the lake.”
Slowly they waded out, dropping into the water before it was waist deep. Teganouan’s powder-horn and musket lay on the log, and the maid herself steadied it so that they should not be lost.