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She nodded. “I wish the line were longer. It will be hard to give him any room.” She wound the cord around her wrist. “Will the line hold, M’sieu?”
“I think so. See if you can pull in.”
She leaned back, and pulled steadily, then shook her head. “Not very much. Perhaps, if you can get into the shallow water–”
Menard slowly worked the canoe through an opening in the rushes. There was a thrashing about and plunging not two rods away. Once the fish leaped clear of the water in a curve of clashing silver.
“It’s a salmon,” he said. “A small one.”
The maid held hard, but the colour had gone from her face. The canoe drew nearer to the shore.
“Hold fast,” said Menard. He gave a last sweep of the paddle, and crept forward to the bow. Kneeling behind the maid, he reached over her shoulder, and took the line below her hand.
“Careful, M’sieu; it may break.”
“We must risk it.” He pulled slowly in until the fish was close under the gunwale. “Now can you hold?”
“Yes.” She shook a straying lock of hair from her eyes, and took another turn of the cord around her wrist.
“Steady,” he said. He drew his knife, leaned over the gunwale, and stabbed at the fighting fish until his blade sank in just below the gills, and he could lift it aboard.
The maid laughed nervously, and rested her hands upon the two gunwales. Her breath was gone, and there was a red mark around her wrist where the cord had been. The canoe had drifted into the rushes, and Menard went back to his paddle, and worked out again into the channel.
“And now, Mademoiselle,” he said, “we shall have a breakfast of our own. You need not paddle. I will take her down.”
Her breath was coming back. She laughed, and sat comfortably in the bow, facing Menard, and letting her eyes follow the steady swing and catch of his paddle. When they reached the camp, the voyageurs were astir, but Danton and the priest still slept. The first red glare of the sun was levelled at them over the eastern trees.
Menard made a fire under an arch of flat stones, and trimming a strip of oak wood with his hatchet, he laid the cleaned fish upon it and kept it on the fire until it was brown and crisp. The maid sat by, her eyes alert and her cheeks flushed.
Danton was awake before the fish was cooked, and he stood about with a pretence of not observing them. The maid was fairly aroused. She drew him into the talk, and laughed and bantered with the two men as prettily as they could have wished from a Quebec belle.
All during the morning Danton was silent. At noon, when the halt was made for the midday lunch, he was still puzzling over the apparent understanding between Mademoiselle and the Captain. Before the journey was taken up, he stood for a moment near Menard, on the river bank.
“Captain,” he said, “you asked me last night to–”
“Well?”
“It may be that I have misunderstood you. Of course, if Mademoiselle–if you–” He caught himself.
Menard smiled; then he read the earnestness beneath the boy’s confusion, and sobered.
“Mademoiselle and I went fishing, Danton. Result,–Mademoiselle eats her first meal. If you can do as much you shall have my thanks. And now remember that you are a lieutenant in the King’s service.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE LONG ARROW
Menard allowed a halt of but a few hours at Three Rivers. The settlement held little of interest, for all the resident troops and most of the farmers and engagés had gone up the river to join the army which was assembling at Montreal. The close of the first week out of Quebec saw the party well on the second half of the journey to Montreal. As they went on, Menard’s thoughts were drawn more deeply into the work that lay ahead, and in spite of his efforts at lightness, the work of keeping up the maid’s spirits fell mostly to Danton (though Father Claude did what he could). As matters gradually became adjusted, Danton’s cheery, hearty manner began to tell; and now that there was little choice of company, the maid turned to him for her diversion.
On the morning of the second day after leaving Three Rivers, the two voyageurs were carrying the canoe to the water when Guerin slipped on a wet log, throwing the canoe to the ground, and tearing a wide rent in the bark. Menard was impatient at this carelessness. The knowledge that the Three Rivers detachment had already gone on to Montreal had decided him to move more rapidly, and he had given orders that they should start each day in the first light of the dawn. This was a chill morning. A low, heavy fog lay on the river, thinning, at a yard above the water, into a light mist which veiled what colour may have been in the east.
While Guerin and Perrot were patching the canoe under Menard’s eye, Danton found some dry logs under the brush, and built up the dying fire, which was in a rocky hollow, not visible from the river. Then he and the maid sat on the rocks above it, where they could get the warmth, and yet could see the river. Menard and his men, though only a few rods away, were but blurred forms as they moved about the canoe, gumming the new seams.
The maid, save for an occasional heavy hour in the late evenings, had settled into a cheerful frame of mind. The novelty, and the many exciting moments of the journey, as well as the kindness of the three men, kept her thoughts occupied. Danton, once he had shaken off his sulky fits, was good company. They sat side by side on the rock, looking down at the struggling fire, or at the figures moving about the canoe, or out into the white mystery of the river, talking easily in low tones of themselves and their lives and hopes.
The mist, instead of rising, seemed to settle closer to the water, as the broad daylight came across the upper air. The maid and Danton fell into silence as the picture brightened. Danton was less sensitive than she to the whims of nature, and tiring of the scene, he was gazing down into the fire when the maid, without a word, touched his arm. He looked up at her; then, seeing that her eyes were fixed on the river, followed her gaze. Not more than a score of yards from the shore, moving silently through the mist, were the heads of three Indians. Their profiles stood out clearly against the white background; their shoulders seemed to dissolve into the fog. They passed slowly on up the stream, looking straight ahead, without a twitch of the eyelids, like a vision from the happy hunting-ground.
Danton slipped down from the rock, and stepped lightly to Menard, pointing out the three heads just as they were fading into the whiteness about them. Menard motioned to Guerin and Perrot to get the newly patched canoe into the water, took three muskets, and in a moment pushed off, leaving Danton with the maid and the priest, who had retired a short distance for his morning prayers. For a minute the heads of the three white men were in sight above the fog, then they too were swallowed up.
“I wonder what Menard thinks about them?” said Danton, going back toward the maid.
She was still looking at the mist, and did not hear him, so he took a seat at the foot of the rock and rubbed the hammer of his musket, which had been rusted by the damp. After a time the maid looked toward him.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Danton replied. “They were going up-stream in a canoe, I suppose. Probably he thinks they can give us some information.”
In a few minutes, during which the mist was clearing under the rays of the sun, the two canoes together came around a wooded point and beached. The Indians walked silently to the fire. They appeared not to see Danton and the maid. Menard paused to look over his canoe. It was leaking badly, and before joining the group at the fire, he set the canoemen at work making a new patch.
“Danton,” he said, in a low tone, when he reached the fire, “find the Father.”
Danton hurried away, and Menard turned to the largest of the three Indians, who wore the brightest blanket, and had a peculiar wampum collar, decorated in mosaic-like beadwork.
“You are travellers, like ourselves,” he said, in the Iroquois tongue. “We cannot let you pass without a word of greeting. I see that you are of the Onondagas, my brothers. It may be that you are from the Mission at the Sault St. Francis Xavier?”
The Indian bowed. “We go from Three Rivers to Montreal.”
“I, too, am taking my party to Montreal.” Menard thought it wise to withhold the further facts of his journey. “Have you brothers at Three Rivers?”
“No,” replied the Indian. “We have been sent with a paper from the Superior at Sault St. Francis Xavier to the good fathers at Three Rivers. Now we are on our return to the Mission.”
“Have my brothers eaten?” Menard motioned toward the fire. “It is still early in the day.”
The three bowed. “We are travelling fast,” said the spokesman, “for the Superior awaits our return. We ate before the light. It will soon be time for us to go on our journey.”
Menard saw Father Claude and Danton approaching, and waited for them. The face of the large Indian seemed like some other face that had had a place in his memory. It was not unlikely that he had known this warrior during his captivity, when half a thousand braves had been to him as brothers. The Indian was apparently of middle age, and had lines of dignity and authority in his face that made it hard to accept him as a subdued resident at the Mission. But Menard knew that no sign of doubt or suspicion must appear in his face, so he waited for the priest. The Indians sat with their knees drawn up and their blankets wrapped about them, looking stolidly at the fire.
Father Claude came quietly into the group, and with a smile extended his hand to the smallest of the three, an older man, with a wrinkled face. “I did not look for you here, Teganouan. Have you gone back to the Mission?”
Teganouan returned the smile, and bowed.
“My brother has told the white man of our errand?”
“Yes,” said Menard, “they have been sent to Three Rivers by the Superior, and are now returning. I have told them that we, too, are going to Montreal.”
The priest took the hint. “We shall meet you and your brothers again, Teganouan. They are newcomers at the Mission, I believe. They had not come when I left.”
“No, Father. They have but last week become Christians. The Long Arrow” (inclining his head toward the large Indian) “has lost a son, and through his suffering was led to take the faith.”
The Long Arrow, who had seemed to lose interest in the conversation as soon as he had finished speaking, here rose.
“My brothers and the good Father will give us their blessing? The end of the journey is yet three days away. I had hoped that we might be permitted to accept the protection of the son of Onontio,”–he looked at Menard,–“but I see that his canoe will not be ready for the journey before the sun is high.” He looked gravely from Menard to the priest, then walked to the shore, followed by the others. They pushed off, and shortly disappeared around the point of land.
Menard gave them no attention, but as soon as they were gone from sight, he turned to the priest.
“Well, Father, what do you make of that?”
Father Claude shook his head.
“Nothing, as yet, M’sieu. Do you know who the large man is?”
“No; but I seem to remember him. And what is more to the point, he certainly remembers me.”
“Are you sure?”
“He recognized me on the river. He came back with me so willingly because he wanted to know more about us. That was plain. It would be well, Father, to enquire at the Mission. We should know more of them and their errand at Three Rivers.”
Menard called Danton, and walked with him a little way into the wood.
“Danton,” he said, “you are going through this journey with us, and I intend that you shall know about such matters as this meeting with the Onondagas.”
“Oh, they were Onondagas?”
“Yes. They claim to be Mission Indians, but neither the Father nor I altogether believe them.” In a few sentences Menard outlined the conversation. “Now, Danton, this may or may not be an important incident. I want you to know the necessity for keeping our own counsel in all such matters, dropping no careless words, and letting no emotions show. I wish you would make a point of learning the Iroquois language. Father Claude will help you. You are to act as my right-hand man, and you may as well begin now to learn to draw your own conclusions from an Indian’s words.”
Danton took eagerly to the lessons with Father Claude, for they seemed another definite step toward the excitement that surely, to his mind, lay in wait ahead. The studying began on that afternoon, while they were toiling up against the stream.
In the evening, when the dusk was coming down, and the little camp was ready for the night, Menard came up from the heap of stores, where the voyageurs had already stretched out, and found the maid sitting alone by the fire. Danton, in his rush of interest in the new study, had drawn Father Claude aside for another lesson.
“Mademoiselle is lonely?” asked Menard, sitting beside her.
“No, no, M’sieu. I have too many thoughts for that.”
“What interesting thoughts they must be.”
“They are, M’sieu. They are all about the Indians this morning. Tell me, M’sieu,–they called you Onontio. What does it mean?”
“They called me the son of Onontio, because of my uniform. Onontio, the Great Mountain, is their name for the Governor; and the Governor’s soldiers are to them his sons.”
“They speak a strange language. It is not the same as that of the Ottawas, who once worked for my father.”
“Did you know their tongue?”
“A few words, and some of the signs. This,”–raising her hand, with the first finger extended, and slowly moving her arm in a half circle from horizon to horizon,–“this meant a sun,–one day.”
Menard looked at her for a moment in silence. He enjoyed her enthusiasm.
“Why don’t you learn Iroquois? You would enjoy it. It is a beautiful tongue,–the language of metaphor and poetry.”
“I should like to,” she replied, looking with a faint smile at Danton and the priest, who were sitting under a beech tree, mumbling in low tones.
“You shall join the class, Mademoiselle. You shall begin to-morrow. It was thoughtless of Danton to take the Father’s instruction to himself alone.”
“And then, M’sieu, I will know what the Indians say when they sit up stiffly in their blankets, and talk down in their throats. They have such dignity. It is hard not to believe them when they look straight at one.”
“Don’t you believe them?”
“The three this morning,–they did not tell the truth.”
“Didn’t they?”
“Why, I understood that you did not believe them.”
“And where did Mademoiselle learn that? Did she follow the conversation?”
“No; but Lieutenant Danton–”
“He told you?”
She nodded. Menard frowned.
“He shouldn’t have done that.”
The maid looked surprised at his remark, and the smile left her face. “Of course, M’sieu,” she said, a little stiffly, “whatever is not meant for my ears–”
Menard was still frowning, and he failed to notice her change in manner. He abruptly gave the conversation a new turn, but seeing after a short time that the maid had lost interest in his sallies, he rose, and called to the priest.
“Father, you are to have a new pupil. Mademoiselle also will study the language of the Iroquois. If you are quick enough with your pupils, we shall soon be able to hold a conversation each night about the fire. Perhaps, if you would forego your exclusive air, Mademoiselle would begin at once.”
Danton, without waiting for the priest to start, came hurriedly over and sat by the maid.
“You must pardon me,” he said, “I did not think,–I did not know that you would be interested. It is so dry.”
The maid smiled at the fire.
“You did not ask,” she replied, “and I could not offer myself to the class.”
“It will be splendid,” said Danton. “We shall learn the language of the trees and the grass and the rivers and the birds. And the message of the wampum belt, too, we shall know. You see,”–looking up at Menard,–“already I am catching the meanings.”
Menard smiled, and then went down the bank, leaving the three to bend their heads together over the mysteries of the Iroquois rules of gender, written out by Father Claude on a strip of bark. It was nearly an hour later, after the maid had crept to her couch beneath the canoe, and Perrot and Guerin had sprawled upon the bales and were snoring in rival keys, that Danton came lightly down the slope humming a drinking song. He saw Menard, and dropped to the ground beside him, with a low laugh.
“Mademoiselle will lead my wits a chase, Menard. Already she is deep in the spirit of the new work.”
“Be careful, my boy, that she leads no more than your wits a chase.”
Danton laughed again.
“I don’t believe there is great danger. What a voice she has! I did not know it at first, when she was frightened and spoke only in the lower tones. Now when she speaks or laughs it is like–”
“Like what?”
“There is no fit simile in our tongue, light as it is. It may be that in the Iroquois I shall find the words. It should be something about the singing brooks or the voice of the leaves at night.”
The lad was in such buoyant spirits that Menard had to harden himself for the rebuke which he must give. With the Indian tribes Menard had the tact, the control of a situation, that would have graced a council of great chiefs; but in matters of discipline, the blunter faculties and language of the white men seemed to give his wit no play. Now, as nearly always, he spoke abruptly.
“Have you forgotten our talk of this morning, Danton?”
“No,” replied the boy, looking up in surprise.
The night had none of the dampness that had left a white veil over the morning just gone. The moon was half hidden behind the western trees. The sky, for all the dark, was blue and deep, set with thousands of stars, each looking down at its mate in the shining water.
“I spoke of the importance of keeping our own counsel.”
Danton began to feel what was coming. He looked down at the ground without replying.
“To-night Mademoiselle has repeated a part of our conversation.”
“Mademoiselle,–why, she is one of our party. She knows about us,–who we are, what we are going for–”
“Then you have told her, Danton?”
“How could she help knowing? We are taking her to Frontenac.”
“Father Claude has not told her why we go to Frontenac–nor have I.”
“But Major Provost is her friend–”
“He would never have told her.”
“But she seemed to know about it.”
“Then you have talked it over with her?”
“Why, no,–that is, in speaking of our journey we said something of the meaning of the expedition. It could hardly be expected that we,–I fail to see, Captain, what it is you are accusing me of.”
“You have not been accused yet, Danton. Let me ask you a question. Why did you enter the King’s army?”
Danton hesitated, and started once or twice to frame answer, but made no reply.
“Did you wish a gay uniform, to please the maids, to–”
“You are unfair, M’sieu.”
“No, I wish to know. We will say, if you like, that you have hoped to be a soldier,–a soldier of whom the King may one day have cause to be proud.”
Danton flushed, and bowed his head.
“I offered you the chance to go on this mission, Danton, because I believed in you. I believed that you had the making of a soldier. This is not a child’s errand, this of ours. It is the work of strong men. This morning I told you of my talk with the three Onondagas because I have planned to take you into my confidence, and to give you the chance to make a name for yourself. I made a point of the importance of keeping such things to yourself.”
“But Mademoiselle, M’sieu, she is different–”
“Look at the facts, Danton. I told you this morning: within twelve hours you have passed on your information. How do I know that you would not have let it slip to others if you had had the chance? You forget that Mademoiselle is a woman, and the first and last duty of a soldier is to tell no secrets to a woman.”
“You speak wrongly of Mademoiselle. It is cowardly to talk thus.”
Menard paused to get control of his temper.
“Cowardly, Danton? Is that the word you apply to your commander?”
“Your pardon, M’sieu! A thousand pardons! It escaped me–”
“We will pass it by. I want you to understand this matter. Mademoiselle will spend a night in Montreal. We shall leave her with other women. A stray word, which to her might mean nothing, might be enough to give the wrong persons a hint of the meaning of our journey. A moment’s nervousness might slip the bridle from her tongue. All New France is not so loyal that we can afford to drop a chance secret here and there. As to this maid, she is only a child, and by giving her our secrets, you are forcing her to bear a burden which we should bear alone. These Indians this morning were spies, I am inclined to believe, scouting along the river for information of the coming campaign. The only way that we can feel secure is by letting no word escape our lips, no matter how trivial. I tell you this, not so much for this occasion as for a suggestion for the future.”
“Very well, M’sieu. You will please accept my complete apologies.”
“I shall have to add, Danton, that if any further mistake of this kind occurs I shall be forced to dismiss you from my service. Now that I have said this, I want you to understand that I don’t expect it to happen. I have believed in you, Danton, and I stand ready to be a friend to you.”
Menard held out his hand. Danton clasped it nervously, mumbling a second apology. For a few moments longer they sat there, Menard trying to set Danton at ease, but the boy was flushed, and he spoke only half coherently. He soon excused himself and wandered off among the trees and the thick bushes.
During the next day Danton was in one of his sullen moods. He worked feverishly, and, with the maid, kept Father Claude occupied for the greater part of the time, as they paddled on, with conversation, and with discussion of the Iroquois words. The maid felt the change from the easy relations in the party, and seemed a little depressed, but she threw herself into the studying. Often during the day she would take up a paddle, and join in the stroke. At first Menard protested, but she laughed, and said that it was a “rest” after sitting so long.
They were delayed on the following day by a second accident to the canoe, so that they were a full day late in reaching Montreal. They moved slowly up the channel, past the islands and the green banks with their little log-houses or, occasionally, larger dwellings built after the French manner. St. Helen’s Island, nearly opposite the city, had a straggling cluster of hastily built bark houses, and a larger group of tents where the regulars were encamped, awaiting the arrival of Governor Denonville with the troops from Quebec.
Menard stopped at the island, guiding the canoe to the bank where a long row of canoes and bateaux lay close to the water.
“You might get out and walk around,” he said to the others. “I shall be gone only a few moments.”
Father Claude sat on the bank, lost in meditation. Danton and the maid walked together slowly up and down, beyond earshot from the priest. Since Menard’s rebuke, both the lad and the maid had shown a slight trace of resentment. It did not come out in their conversation, but rather in their silences, and in the occasions which they took to sit and walk apart from the others. It was as if a certain common ground of interest had come to them. The maid, for all her shyness and even temper, was not accustomed to such cool authority as Menard was developing. The priest was keeping an eye on the fast-growing acquaintanceship, and already had it vaguely in mind to call it to the attention of Menard, who was getting too deeply into the spirit and the details of his work to give much heed.
Menard was soon back.
“Push off,” he said. “The Major is not here. We shall have to look for him in the city.”
They headed across the stream. The city lay before them, on its gentle slope, with the mountain rising behind like an untiring sentry. It was early in the afternoon, and on the river were many canoes and small boats, filled with soldiers, friendly Indians, or voyageurs, moving back and forth between the island and the city. They passed close to many of the bateaux, heaped high with provision and ammunition bales, and more than once the lounging soldiers rose and saluted Menard.
At the city wharf he turned to Danton.
“We shall have to get a larger canoe, Danton, and a stronger. Will you see to it, please? We shall have two more in our party from now on. Make sure that the canoe is in the best of condition. Also I wish you would see to getting the rope and the other things we may need in working through the rapids. Then spend your time as you like. We shall start early in the morning.”
Menard and Father Claude together went with the maid to the Superior, who arranged for her to pass the night with the sisters. Then Menard left the priest to make his final arrangements at the Mission, and went himself to see the Commandant, to whom he outlined the bare facts of his journey to Frontenac.
“The thing that most concerns you,” he said finally, “is a meeting I had a few days ago with three Indians down the river. One called himself the Long Arrow, and another was Teganouan, who, Father de Casson tells me, recently left the Mission at the Sault St. Francis Xavier. They claim to be Mission Indians. It will be well to watch out for them, and to have an eye on the Richelieu, and the other routes, to make sure that they don’t slip away to the south with information.”
“Very well,” replied the Commandant. “I imagine that we can stop them. Do you feel safe about taking this maid up the river just now?”
“Oh, yes. Our men are scattered along the route, are they not?” Menard asked.
“Quite a number are out establishing Champigny’s transport system.”
“I don’t look for any trouble. But I should like authority for one or two extra men.”
“Take anything you wish, Menard. I will get word over to the island at once, giving you all the authority you need.”