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CHAPTER XIX.
FRONTENAC
The sun was dropping behind the western forests. From the lodges and cabins of the friendly Indians about the fort rose a hundred thin columns of smoke. Long rows of bateaux and canoes lined the beach below the log palisade; and others drew near the shore, laden with fish. There was a stir and bustle about the square within the stone bastions; orderlies hurried from quarters to barracks, bugles sounded, and groups of ragged soldiers sat about, polishing muskets and belts, and setting new flints. Men of the commissary department were carrying boxes and bales from the fort to a cleared space on the beach.
Menard walked across the square and knocked at the door of Major d’Orvilliers’s little house. Many an eye had followed him as he hurried by, aroused to curiosity by his tattered uniform, rusted musket, and boot-tops rudely stitched to deerskin moccasins.
“Major d’Orvilliers is busy,” said the orderly at the door.
“Tell him it is Captain Menard.”
In a moment the Major himself appeared in the doorway.
“Come in, Menard. I am to start in an hour or so to meet Governor Denonville, but there is always time for you. I’ll start a little late, if necessary.”
“The Governor comes from Niagara?”
“Yes. He is two or three days’ journey up the lake. I am to escort him back.”
They had reached the office in the rear of the house, and the Major brushed a heap of documents and drawings from a chair.
“Sit down, Menard. You have a long story, I take it. You look as if you’d been to the Illinois and back.”
“You knew of my capture?”
“Yes. We had about given you up. And the girl,–Mademoiselle St. Denis–”
“She is here.”
“Here–at Frontenac?”
“Yes; in Father de Casson’s care.”
“Thank God! But how did you do it? How did you get her here, and yourself?”
Menard rose and paced up and down the room. As he walked, he told the story of the capture at La Gallette, of the days in the Onondaga village, of the council and the escape. When he had finished, there was a long silence, while the Major sat with contracted brows.
“You’ve done a big thing, Menard,” he said at last, “one of the biggest things that has been done in New France. But have you thought of the Governor–of how he will take it?”
“Yes.”
“It may not be easy. Denonville doesn’t know the Iroquois as you and I do. He is elated now about his victory,–he thinks he has settled the question of white supremacy. If I were to tell him to-morrow that he has only made a bitter enemy of the Senecas, and that they will not rest until they wipe out this defeat, do you suppose he would believe it? You have given a pledge to the Iroquois that is entirely outside of the Governor’s view of military precedent. To tell the truth, Menard, I don’t believe he will like it.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t know the strength of the Five Nations. He thinks they would all flee before our regulars just as the Senecas did. Worse than that, he doesn’t know the Indian temperament. I’m afraid you can’t make him understand that to satisfy their hunger for revenge will serve better than a score of orations and treaties.”
“You think he won’t touch La Grange?”
“I am almost certain of it.”
“Then it rests with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I gave another pledge, d’Orvilliers. If the Governor won’t do this–I shall have to do it myself.”
Save for a moment’s hesitation Menard’s voice was cool and even; but he had stopped walking and was looking closely at the commandant.
D’Orvilliers was gazing at the floor.
“What do you mean by that?” he said slowly, and then suddenly he got up. “My God, Menard, you don’t mean that you would–”
“Yes.”
“That can’t be! I can’t allow it.”
“It may not be necessary. I hope you are mistaken about the Governor.”
“I hope I am–but no; he won’t help you. He’s not in the mood for paying debts to a weakened enemy. And–Menard, sit down. I must talk plainly to you. I can’t go on covering things up now. I don’t believe you see the matter clearly. If it were a plain question of your mission to the Onondagas–if it were–Well, I want you to tell me in what relation you stand to Mademoiselle St. Denis.”
The Captain was standing by the chair. He rested his arms on the high back, and looked over them at d’Orvilliers.
“She is to be my wife,” he said.
D’Orvilliers leaned back and slowly shook his head.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “when your story goes to Quebec, when the Château learns that you have promised the punishment of La Grange in the name of France, and then of this,–of Mademoiselle and her relations to yourself and to La Grange,–do you know what they will do?”
Menard was silent.
“They will laugh–first, and then–”
“I know,” said the Captain, “I have thought of all that.”
“You have told all this in your report?”
“Yes.”
“So you would go on with it?”
“Yes; I am going on with it. There is nothing else I can do. I couldn’t have offered to give myself up; they already had me. The fault was La Grange’s. What I did was the only thing that could have been done to save the column; if you will think it over, you will see that. I know what I did,–I know I was right; and if my superiors, when I have given my report, choose to see it in another way, I have nothing to say. If they give me my liberty, in the army or out of it, I will find La Grange. If not, I will wait.”
“Why not give that up, at least, Menard?”
“If I give that up, we shall have a war with the Iroquois that will shake New France as she has never been shaken before.”
D’Orvilliers started to speak, but checked the words. Menard slung his musket behind his shoulders.
“Wait, Menard. I don’t know what to say. I must have time to think. If you wish, I will not give notice of your arrival to the Governor. I will leave the matter of reporting in your hands.” He rose, and fingered the papers on the table. “You see how it will look–there is the maid–La Grange seeks your life, you seek his–”
Menard drew himself up, his hat in his hand.
“It shall be pushed to the end, Major. You know me; you know Captain la Grange. There will be excitement, perhaps,–you may find it hard to avoid taking one side or the other. I must ask which side is to be yours.”
D’Orvilliers winced, and for a moment stood biting his lip; then he stepped forward and took both Menard’s hands.
“You shouldn’t have asked that,” he said. “God bless you, Menard! God bless you!”
Menard paused in the door, and turned.
“Shall I need a pass to enter the hospital?”
“Oh, you can’t go there. La Grange is there.”
“Yes; I will report to him. He shall not say that I have left it to hearsay.”
“But he will attack you!”
“No; I will not fight him until I have an answer from the Governor.”
“You can’t get in now until morning.”
“Very well, good-night.”
“You will be careful, Menard?”
The Captain nodded and left the room. Wishing to settle his thoughts, he passed through the palisade gate and walked down the beach. The commissary men were loading the canoes, threescore of them, that were to carry the garrison on its westward journey. Already the twilight was deepening, and the lanterns of the officers were dimmed by the glow from a hundred Indian camp-fires.
From within the fort came a long bugle-call. There was a distant rattling of arms and shouting of commands, then the tramp of feet, and the indistinct line came swinging through the sally-port. They halted at the water’s edge, broke ranks, and took to the canoes, paddling easily away along the shore until they had faded into shadows. A score of Indians stood watching them, stolidly smoking stone pipes and holding their blankets close around them.
It was an hour later when the Captain returned to the fort and started across the enclosure toward the hut which had been assigned to him. Save for a few Indians and a sentry who paced before the barracks, the fort seemed deserted. It was nearly dark now, and the lanterns at the sally-port and in front of barrack and hospital glimmered faintly. Menard had reached his own door, when he heard a voice calling, and turned. A dim figure was running across the square toward the sentry. There was a moment of breathless talk,–Menard could not catch the words,–then the sentry shouted. It occurred to Menard that he was now the senior officer at the fort, and he waited. A corporal led up his guard, halted, and again there was hurried talking. Menard started back toward them, but before he reached the spot all were running toward the hospital, and a dozen others of the home guard had gathered before the barracks and were talking and asking excited questions.
Menard crossed to the hospital. Two privates barred the door, and he was forced to wait until a young Lieutenant of the regulars appeared. The lanterns over the door threw a dim light on the Captain as he stood on the low step.
“What is it?” asked the Lieutenant. “You wished to see me?”
“I am Captain Menard. What is the trouble?”
The Lieutenant looked doubtfully at the dingy, bearded figure, then he motioned the soldiers aside.
“It is Captain la Grange,” he said, when Menard had entered; “he has been killed.”
The Lieutenant spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, but his eyes were shining and he was breathing rapidly. Menard looked at him for a moment without a word, then he stepped to the door of a back room and looked in. Three flickering candles stood on a low table, and another on a chair at the head of the narrow bed. The light wavered over the log and plaster walls. A surgeon was bending over the bed, his assistant waiting at his elbow with instruments; the two shut off the upper part of the bed from Menard’s view. The Lieutenant stood behind the Captain, looking over his shoulder; both were motionless. There was no sound save a low word at intervals between the two surgeons, and the creak of a bore-worm that sounded distinctly from a log in the wall.
Menard turned away and walked back to the outer door, the Lieutenant with him. There they stood, silent, as men are who have been brought suddenly face to face with death. At last the Lieutenant began to speak in a subdued voice.
“We only know that it was an Indian. He has been scalped.”
“Oh!” muttered Menard.
“I think he is still breathing,–he was just before you came,–but there is no hope for him. He was stabbed in a dozen places. It was some time before we knew–the Indian came in by the window, and must have found him asleep. There was no struggle.”
They stood again without speaking, and again the Lieutenant broke the silence.
“It is too bad. He was a good fellow.” He paused, as if searching for a kind word for Captain la Grange. “He was the best shot at the fort when he–when–”
“Yes,” said Menard. He too wished to speak no harsh word. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I think not. There is a strong guard about the fort, but I think the Indian had escaped before we learned of it. I will see you before we take further steps.”
“Very well. I shall be at my quarters. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Menard walked slowly back across the enclosure. At the door of his hut he paused, and for a long time he stood there, looking up at the quiet sky. His mind was scattered for the moment; he could not think clearly.
He opened his door and stepped over the log threshold, letting the door close after him of its own weight. The hut was dark, with but a square of dim light at the window. He fumbled for the candle and struck a light.
There was a low rustle from the corner. Menard whirled around and peered into the shadows. The candle was blowing; he caught it up and shielded it with his hand. A figure was crouching in the corner, half hidden behind a cloak that hung there. The Captain sprang forward holding the candle high, tore down the cloak, and discovered Teganouan, the Onondaga, bending over feeling for his hatchet which lay on the floor at his feet. Menard caught his shoulders, and dragging him out of reach of the hatchet, threw him full length on the floor. The candle dropped and rolled on the floor, but before it could go out, Menard snatched it up.
Slowly Teganouan rose to his feet.
“Teganouan comes in a strange manner to the lodge of the white warrior,” said Menard, scornfully. “He steals in like a Huron thief, and hides in dark corners.”
The Indian looked at him defiantly, but did not answer.
“My Onondaga brother does not wish to show himself in the light. Perhaps there is some trouble on his mind. Perhaps he is governed by an evil Oki who loves the darkness.” While Menard was speaking he was moving quietly toward the door. The Indian saw, but beyond turning slowly so as always to face his captor, made no movement. His face, except for the blazing eyes, was inscrutable. In a moment Menard stood between him and the door. “Perhaps it is best that I should call for the warriors of the fort. They will be glad to find here the slayer of their brother.” His hand was on the latch.
“The Big Buffalo will not call to his brothers.” The Indian’s voice was calm. Menard looked closely at him. “He has not thought yet. When he has thought, he will understand.”
“Teganouan speaks like a child.”
“If Teganouan is a child, can the Big Buffalo tell why he came to the white man’s lodge?”
“Because he has slain a great white warrior, he must hide his face like the outcast dog.” Menard pointed to the scalp that hung at his waist. “He has slain a great warrior while the hatchet lies buried in the ground. He has broken the law of the white man and the redman. And so he must hide his face.”
“Why did not Teganouan run to the woods? Why did he come to the lodge of the Big Buffalo?”
Menard looked steadily at him. He began to understand. The shrewd old warrior had chosen the one hiding-place where no searching party would look. Perhaps he had hoped for aid from the Captain, remembering his pledge to bring punishment on La Grange. If so, he should learn his mistake.
“Teganouan’s words are idle.” Menard moved the latch.
“The Big Buffalo will not open the door. Teganouan has not delivered his message. He is not an enemy to the Big Buffalo. He is his friend. He has come to this lodge, caring nothing for the safety of his life, that he might give his message. The Big Buffalo will not open the door. He will wait to hear the words of Teganouan; and then he may call to his brother warriors if he still thinks it would be wise.”
Menard waited.
“Speak quickly, Teganouan.”
“Teganouan’s words are like the wind. He has brought them many leagues,–from the lodges of the Onondagas,–that he may speak them now. He has brought them from the Long House of the Five Nations, where the fires burn brightly by day and by night, where the greatest chiefs of many thousand warriors are met to hear the Voice of the Great Mountain, the father of white men and redmen. The Great Mountain has a strong voice. It is louder than cannon; it wounds deeper than the musket of the white brave. It tells the Onondagas and Cayugas and Oneidas and Mohawks that they must not give aid to their brothers, the Senecas, who have fallen, whose corn and forts and lodges are burned to ashes and scattered on the winds. It tells the Onondagas that the Great Mountain is a kind father, that he loves them like his own children, and will punish the man who wrongs them, let him be white or red. It tells the Onondagas that the white captain, who has robbed a hundred Onondaga lodges of their bravest hunters, shall be struck by the strong arm of the Great Mountain, shall be blown to pieces by the Voice that thunders from the great water where the seal are found to the farthest village of the Five Nations. And the chiefs hear the Voice; they listen with ears that are always open to the counsel of Onontio. They take his promises into their hearts and believe them. They know that he will strike down the dog of a white captain. They refuse aid to their dying brothers, the Senecas, because they know that the strong arm of Onontio is over them, that it will give them peace.”
He paused, gazing with bright eyes at Menard. There was no reply, and he continued:–
“The Great Mountain has kept his word. The Onondagas shall know, in their council, that Onontio’s promise has been kept, that the white brave, who lied to their hunters and sent them in chains across the big water, has gone to a hunting-ground where his musket will not help him, where the buffalo shall trample him and tear his flesh with their horns. Then the Onondagas shall know that the Big Buffalo spoke the truth to the Long House. And this word shall be carried to the Onondagas by Teganouan. He will go to the council with the scalp in his hand telling them that the white children of Onontio are their brothers. Teganouan sees the Big Buffalo stand with his strong hand at the door. He knows that the Big Buffalo could call his warriors to seize Teganouan, and bind him, and bid him stand before the white men’s muskets. But Teganouan is not a child. He sees with the eye of the old warrior who has fought a battle for every sun in the year, who has known the white man as well as the redman. When the Big Buffalo stood in the Long House, Teganouan believed him; Teganouan knew that his words were true. And now the heart of Teganouan is warm with trust. He knows that the Big Buffalo is a wise warrior and that he has an honest heart.”
There was a pause, and Menard, his hand still on the latch, stood motionless. He knew what the Indian meant. He had done no more than Menard himself had promised the council, in the name of Governor Denonville, should be done. The lodges of the allies near the fort sheltered many an Iroquois spy; whatever might follow would be known in every Iroquois village before the week had passed. To hold Teganouan for trial would mean war.
There was the tramp of feet on the beaten ground without, and a clear voice said:–
“Wait a moment, I must report to Captain Menard.”
Menard raised the latch an inch, then looked sharply at Teganouan. The Indian stood quietly, leaning a little forward, waiting for the decision. The Captain was on the point of speaking, but no word came from his parted lips. The voices were now just outside the door. With a long breath Menard’s fingers relaxed, and the latch slipped back into place. Then he motioned toward the wall ladder that reached up into the darkness of the loft.
Teganouan turned, picked up the hatchet and thrust it into his belt, took one quick glance about the room to make sure that no telltale article remained, and slipped up the ladder. There was a loud knock on the door, and Menard opened it. The Lieutenant came in.
“We have no word yet, Captain,” he said. “Every building in the fort has been searched. I have so few men that I could not divide them until this was done, but I am just now sending out searching parties through the Indian village and the forest. None of the canoes are missing. Have I your approval?”
“Yes.”
“You–you have been here since you left the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“I think, then, that he must have had time to slip out before we knew of it. There are many Indians here who would help him; but a few of them can be trusted, I think, to join the search. Major d’Orvilliers left me with only a handful of men. It will be difficult to accomplish much until he returns. I will post a sentry at the sally-port; we shall have to leave the bastions without a guard. I think it will be safe, for the time.”
“Very well, Lieutenant.”
The Lieutenant saluted and hurried away. Menard closed the door, and turned to the table, where were scattered the sheets on which he had been writing his report. He collected them and read the report carefully. He removed one leaf, and rolling it up, lighted it at the candle, and held it until it was burned to a cinder. Then he read the other sheets again. The report now told of his capture, of a part of the council at the Long House, and of the escape; but no word was there concerning Captain la Grange. Another hand had disposed of that question. Menard sighed as he laid it down, but soon the lines on his face relaxed. It was not the first time in the history of New France that a report had told but half the truth; and, after all, the column had been saved.
He sharpened a quill with his sheath-knife, and began to copy the report, making further corrections here and there. Something more than an hour had passed before the work was finished. He rolled up the document and tied it with a thong of deerskin.
It was still early in the evening, but the fort was as silent as at midnight. Menard opened the door and walked out a little way. The lamps were all burning, but no soldiers were to be seen. The barrack windows were dark. He stepped back into the house, closed the door, and said in a low voice:–
“Teganouan.”
There was a stir in the loft. In a moment the Indian came down the ladder and stood waiting.
“Teganouan, you heard what the Lieutenant said?”
“Teganouan has ears.”
“Very well. I am going to blow out the candle.”
The room was dark. The door creaked softly, and a breath of air blew in upon the Captain as he stood by the table. He felt over the table for his tinder-box and struck a light. The door was slowly closing; Teganouan had gone.
Another sun was setting. A single drum was beating loudly as the little garrison drew up outside the sally-port and presented arms. The allies and the mission Indians were crowding down upon the beach, silent, inquisitive,–puffing at their short pipes. For half a league, from the flat, white beach out over the rose-tinted water stretched an irregular black line of canoes and bateaux, all bristling with muskets. The Governor had come. He could be seen kneeling, all sunburned and ragged but with erect head, in the first canoe. His canoemen checked their swing, for the beach was close at hand, and then backed water. The bow scraped, and a dozen hands were outstretched in aid, but Governor Denonville stepped briskly out into the ankle-deep water and carried his own pack ashore. A cheer went up from the little line at the sally-port. Du Luth’s voyageurs and coureur de bois caught it up, and then it swept far out over the water and was echoed back from the forest.
In the doorway of a hut near the Recollet Chapel stood Menard and Valérie. They watched canoe after canoe glide up and empty its load of soldiers, not speaking as they watched, but thinking each the same thought. At last, when the straggling line was pouring into the fort, and the bugles were screaming, and the drum rolling, Valérie slipped her hand through the Captain’s arm and looked up into his face.
“It was you who brought them here,” she said; and then, after a pause, she laughed a breathless little laugh. “It was you,” she repeated.