The Road to Frontenac Part 15

CHAPTER VII.

A COMPLIMENT FOR MENARD.

Colin and Guerin were dead, and one of the transport men lay in a drunken sleep, so that including Menard, Danton, and Father Claude there were six men in the little half circle that clung to the edge of the bank, shooting into the brush wherever a twig stirred or a musket flashed. "There are not many of them," said Menard to Danton, as they lay on their sides reloading. He listened to the whoops and barks in an interval between shots. "Not a score, all told."

"Will they come closer?"

"No. You won't catch an Iroquois risking his neck in an a.s.sault.

They'll try to pick us off; but if we continue as strong as we are now, they are likely to draw off and try some other devilment, or wait for a better chance."

Danton crept back to his log for another shot. Now that the sky was nearly free of clouds, and the river was sparkling in the starlight, the Frenchmen could not raise their heads to shoot without exposing a dim silhouette to the aim of an Indian musket. Father Claude, who was loading and firing a long _arquebuse a croc_, had risen above this difficulty by heaping a pile of stones. Kneeling on the slope, a pace below the others, and resting the crutch of his piece in a hollow close to the stones, he could shoot through a crevice with little chance of harm, beyond a bruised shoulder.

The maid came timidly up the bank, and touched Menard's arm.

"What is it, Mademoiselle? You must not come here. It is not safe."

"I want to speak to you, M'sieu. If I could have your knife--for one moment--"

"What do you want of a knife, child? It is best that you--" There was a fusillade from the brush, and his voice was lost in the uproar. "You must wait below, on the beach. They cannot get to you."

"It is the canoe, M'sieu. The cloth about the bales is stout,--I can sew it over the hole."

Menard looked at her as she crouched by his side; her hair fallen about her face and shoulders; her hands, grimy with the clay of the bank, clinging to a wandering root. She was still trembling with excitement, but her eyes were bright and eager. Without a word he drew his knife from its sheath, and held it out. She took it, and was down the slope with a light spring, while the Captain poked the muzzle of his musket through the leaves. As he drew it back, after firing, he caught a glimpse of Danton's face, turned toward him with a curious expression. The boy laughed nervously, and wiped the sweat from his blackened forehead. "They don't give us much rest, Captain, do they?"

Menard's reply was jerked out with the strokes of his ramrod: "They will--before long--and we can--take to the canoe. We're letting them have all they want." He peered through the leaves, and fired quickly.

A long shriek came from the darkness. Menard laughed. "There's one more gone, Danton."

The fight went on slowly, wretchedly, shot for shot, Danton himself dragging up a bale of ammunition and serving it to the men. The maid, unaided, had overturned the canoe where it lay, and with quickened breath was pressing her needle through the tough bark. Danton lost the flint from his musket, and crept down the bank to set a new one.

Suddenly he exclaimed, "There goes Perrot!"

The old _voyageur_ had, in a fit of recklessness, raised his head for a long look about the woods. Now he was rolling slowly down the slope toward the canoe and the maid, clutching weakly at roots and bushes as he pa.s.sed. There was a dark spot on his forehead. Menard sprang after, and felt of his wrists; the pulse was fluttering out. He looked up, to see the maid dipping up water with her hollowed hands, and waved her back.

"It is no use, Mademoiselle. Is the canoe ready? We may need it soon."

She stood motionless, slowly shaking her head, and letting the water spill from her hands a drop at a time.

"Go back there. Do what you can with it." He hurried up the bank and fell into his place.

"Do you see what they are doing?" asked Danton.

"Playing the devil. Anything else?"

The lieutenant pointed to an arrow that was sticking in a tree beside him, slanting downward. "They are climbing trees. Listen. You can hear them talking, and calling down. I've fired, but I don't get them."

Menard listened closely, and shot for the sound, but with no result.

"We've got to stop this, Danton. I don't understand it. It isn't like the Iroquois to keep at it after a repulse. Tell Father Claude; he is shooting too low." Menard glanced along the line at his men. The drunken transport man lay silent at his post; beyond him were his mate and one of the Montreal men, both of them reckless and frightened by turns, shooting aimlessly into the dark. The arrows were rattling down about them now. One grazed Father Claude's back as he stooped to take aim, and straightened him up with a jerk. A moment later a bullet sang close past Menard's head. He looked for the maid; she was sitting by the canoe, sewing, giving no heed to the arrows.

The Montreal man groaned softly, and flattened out, with an arrow slanting into the small of his back; which so unmanned the only other conscious _engage_ that he sank by him, sobbing, and trying to pull out the arrow with his hands. Menard sprang up.

"My G.o.d, Danton! Father Claude! This is ma.s.sacre. Run for the canoe.

My turn, eh?"

"What is it?" asked Danton. "Did they get you?"

For reply, Menard tore an arrow from the flesh of his forearm and dashed down the bank, musket in hand. The maid was tugging at the canoe, struggling to move it toward the water. She did not look up to see the yellow, crimson, and green painted figures rise from the reeds that fringed the water but a few yards away; she did not hear the rush of moccasined feet on the gravel. Before she could turn, she was seized and thrown to the ground, surrounded by the Indians, who were facing about hastily to meet Menard. The Captain came among them with a whirl of his musket that sent one warrior to the ground and dropped another, half stunned, across the canoe. Danton was at his heels, and Father Claude, fighting like demons with muskets and knives.

"Quick, Mademoiselle!" Menard lifted her as he spoke, and swung her behind him; and then the three were facing the group of howling, jumping figures, which was increased rapidly by those who had followed the Frenchmen down the bank. "Come back here, Father. Protect the maid! They dare not attack you, if you drop your musket! Loose your hold, Mademoiselle." He caught roughly at the slender arms that held about his waist, parrying a knife stroke with his other hand. "They will kill you if you cling to me. Now, Danton! Never mind your arm. I have one in the hand. Fight for the maid and France!" Menard was shouting for sheer l.u.s.t and frenzy of battle, "What is the matter with the devils? Why don't they shoot? G.o.d, Danton, they're coming at us with clubs!" He called out in the Iroquois tongue: "Come at us, cowards! Make an end of it! Where are your bows? your muskets? Where is the valour of the Onondagas--of my brothers?"

The last words brought forth a chorus of jeers and yells. The two officers stood side by side at the water's edge. Behind them, knee-deep in the water, was Father Claude, holding the maid in his arms. The Indians seemed to draw together, still with that evident effort to take their game alive, for two tall chiefs were rushing about, cautioning the warriors. Then, of a sudden, the whole body came forward with a rush, and Menard, Danton, Father Claude, and the maid went down; the three men fighting and splashing until they lay, bound with thongs, on the beach.

Menard turned his head and saw that Danton lay close to him.

"Mademoiselle?" he said. "What have they done with her?"

"She is here." The reply was in Father Claude's voice. It came from the farther side of Danton.

"Is she hurt?"

"No. But they have bound her and me."

"Bound you!" The Captain tried to sit up, but could not. "They would not do that, Father. It is a mistake."

A warrior, carrying a musket under his arm, walked slowly around the prisoners, making signs to them to be silent. The others had withdrawn to the shadow of the bank; the sound of their voices came indistinctly across the strip of sh.o.r.e. Indifferent to the pain in his arm, Menard struggled at his thongs, and called to them in Iroquois: "Who of my brothers has bound the holy Father? What new fear strikes the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the sons of the night-wind that they must subdue with force the gentle spirit of their Father, who has given his years for his children? Is it not enough that you have broken the faith with your brother, the child of your own village, the son of your bravest chief?

Need you other prey than myself?"

The guard stood over Menard, and lifted his musket. Menard laughed.

"Strike me, brave warrior. Show that your heart is still as fond as on the day I carried your torn body on my shoulder to the safety of your lodge. Ah, you remember? You have not forgotten the Big Buffalo? Then, why do you hesitate? The man who has courage to seize a Father of the Church, surely can strike his brother. This is not the brave Tegakwita I have known."

Father Claude broke in on Menard, whose voice was savage in its defiance.

"Have patience, M'sieu. I will speak." He lifted his voice.

"Teganouan! Father Claude awaits you." There was no reply from the knot of warriors at the bank, and the priest called again. Finally a chief came across and looked stolidly at the prisoners.

"My Father called?" he said.

"Your Father is grieved, Long Arrow, that you would bind him like a soldier taken in war." The priest's voice was gentle. "Is this the custom of the Onondagas? It was not so when I served you with Father de Lamberville."

"My Father fought against his children."

"You would have slain me, Long Arrow, had I not."

The Indian walked slowly back to his braves, and for some moments there was a consultation. Then the other chief came to them, and, without a word, himself cut the thongs that bound the priest's wrists and ankles. There was no look of recognition in his eyes as he pa.s.sed Menard, though they had been together on many a long hunt. He was the Beaver.

As the Captain lay on his back, looking first at the kneeling Indian, then at the sky overhead, he was thinking of the Long Arrow, again with a half-memory of some other occasion when they had met. Then, slowly, it came to him. It was at the last council to decide on his release from captivity, five years before. The Long Arrow had come from a distant village to urge the death of the prisoner. He had argued eloquently that to release Menard would be to send forth an ungrateful son who would one day strike at the hand that had befriended him.