Читать книгу The Champlain Road - Franklin Davey McDowell - Страница 11

Table of Contents

The cornfields of Teanaostaiaë spread out to the elbow of a deep ravine, a young growth of green stalks, leaves drooping motionless in the summer heat, as if mourning for that smouldering blot which rounded as a half-moon of ash and charred wood—the one-time Cord village that was no more.

Head bowed to chest Godfrey walked to a smoking mound. It had been a strong, log bastion. Now, there was nothing but the glow and crackle of its ruins. At the corner, a ravine fell away precipitously to the bed of the leaping stream, fifty feet below, at the cup of the spreading valley. East, south and west this valley flung its grandeur to the cloudless heavens, as far as the eye might see. His brows gathered in a frown. Only one explanation for the disaster could be accepted. It lay in the criminal negligence of the victims themselves. He glanced obliquely at Arakoua. She stood as one smitten dumb by the obliteration of her world. He glimpsed the whitened faces of the soldiers, their wide, unbelieving eyes. Only the Huron warriors stood in stoic indifference. Not by a shift of a muscle did they betray their emotion. All was silent except for the moans of the second woman. Arakoua shook herself, turned and thumped her companion with axe-haft. She subsided to choking quiet.

Godfrey walked the length of a deep trench, fronting a row of fire-gnawed stumps. The fire, he saw, raged with a fury that devoured everything in its path. This was to be expected. Bark houses, fur furnishings, and many days of hot weather made the town a torch awaiting a spark. He raised his head as Arakoua returned. “The River Sentinel was caught with closed eyes.”

“Our warriors were hunting; others were searching for the Hodenosaunee.”

“They will find where the firebrands burned—when they return.”

“And you, a fighter, stood safe behind stone walls while my people were butchered and my town burned.” Her voice shook with rage at the gibe.

“It seems I ran across you in the forest.” He smiled sourly.

“I was not hiding behind stone walls.”

“Nor was I, or some of those fingers of yours would be rotting on the ground by now. Come with me!” He led her to where the ditch was broken and ash heaps spread inward for five yards. “That was the gate: and the palisades were so high warriors could not leap to grasp the top.” He pointed to a great mound where fire glowed and flickered feebly among mangled logs. “That was one of six bastions. Four men could have defended it against twoscore. Now, can your mind see what happened?”

“No watch was kept. Your ondakis bewitched our warriors.”

“The Great Spirit give me patience with you,” he snapped. “We have tried to teach you Ouendats to defend yourselves. You will not be helped. You would sooner be massacred. Your warriors are as wrong-headed as you are.”

He stopped with a snarl. Arakoua was not listening. She was watching half a score of fugitives streaming in from the forest. Godfrey looked at the sun. It was far down in the west. He called to Desfosses. “We’ll have to stay here tonight. The ashes are too hot to make a search. There’s not enough crushed corn to feed all. I think it’s safe to discharge a musket now. With all this commotion some bear cub probably was frightened enough to take to the trees and stay there. Do you go with Philip and the two Indians and try to bag one.”

Louis grinned broadly. The opportunity to augment sagamite by fresh meat was distinctly to his liking. That sagamite was the staple of food in Huronia gave no pleasure to the garrison of Fort Ste. Marie. They regarded it as an unappetizing mess of ground corn, boiled without salt, served exceedingly thin and seasoned sparingly with pieces of dried fish or meat. Godfrey understood Louis’ dislike of the corn gruel. He dismissed the soldiers with a nod and waited for the fugitives to arrive.

They came, men and women, shaken by their fright. Arakoua eyed them in disdainful silence. Godfrey spoke. “When did the Hodenosaunee attack?”

“At the hour Anouennen’s bell rang. They came rushing from the forest as the waters of a great flood would rush. There was no time for defence and the gates were open. Some of us made stand there and were cut down. See!” The speaker pointed to a long, jagged tear in the side of his plucked head from which blood oozed through the dressing of medicinal leaves.

“Anouennen! What of him?”

“I saw Anouennen run out of the good annonchia to the gates,” a woman answered. “There was madness everywhere. He went straight to where the Hodenosaunee were attacking, shouting to us to save ourselves by flight. The old could not run and gathered about him, fell on their knees and cried out to be saved. He went back to the annonchia again.”

“There was a crowd of old men, women and children in the annonchia,” another volunteered. “They were crying for the saving water and Anouennen was shaking it over them with a cloth. I heard him say, ‘Brothers, today we shall be in Heaven.’ Then I heard a great yell and I knew the Hodenosaunee had entered. I ran for the other side, climbed over the palisade and got away.”

“I saw Anouennen fall.” A grizzled warrior, with a red gash across the tattoo symbols of his chest, spoke with pride. “He came out of the annonchia to meet the Hodenosaunee and stood before them in his white robe. His face was bright as if a fire burned within him. They showered him with arrows. A musket ball struck him over the heart. I saw the cloth tear. He fell. The Hodenosaunee rushed at him with axes upraised. I saw no more, for I killed the warrior who came at me and fled.”

Godfrey walked away. In thought he was living with Father Daniel those red minutes of slaughter. It was a black scene that he saw. Scores of victims given over to short-axe and arrow, other scores marched to groan out their lives at the torture stake. There was but one shaft of light to pierce the gloom, that white light of devotion and heroism shown by the gallant priest in his great hour out of all time—the hour of martyrdom. No one appreciated more than he the value of Father Daniel’s sacrifice. Such Hurons as escaped owed their lives to his tranquil courage. Iroquois hatred of the black robes flared out afresh at the sight of him, glorious in his vestments. They would not go forward while he lived. There was a rush to vent their fury upon his defenceless body, to hack it to bits and splatter themselves with his life blood. Not until they had thrown the mangled remains to the flaming church, would they seek out new victims, a precious interlude that meant the difference between life and death to scores of fugitives. Father Daniel was one with the years that had passed. All that remained of him was mingled with the ashes of his beloved church. But his memory would never fade. It was enshrined eternally in records that recount all that is best and noble of mankind.

Deep in thought Godfrey seated himself upon an elm stump at the edge of the cornfields. His head snapped upward and fingers sought knife-haft, as a deep voice spoke unexpectedly at his ear. “That, O Teanaosti, is the way a warrior mourns, silent in grief and thoughts of revenge.”

“True, O Ouendat, there will be a reckoning for this.” He saw that Philip and Louis had returned, bringing two bear hams with them. “The hunt was good.”

“It was as the captain said,” Louis smiled. “A foolish cub took to the tree-tops and stayed there.”

“And many people of the Long House will dance the dance of death in our fires.” The Huron ignored the soldiers’ compliment.

“In the meantime we must eat.” Godfrey cut short predictions of revenge. “What of the others over there?” He flicked a thumb to where the fugitives had gathered forlornly about Arakoua.

“You think deeply and bravely, O Guardian of the River,” the second warrior said with approval. “You have no eyes except those of hate, otherwise you would have seen us throw them meat.”

Arakoua was haranguing the survivors loudly. She flung her arms outward to the forest. “Out of there they came as wolves come and we were asleep. What then?” She made a downward sweep of the hand to the great heap of ash that was Teanaostaiaë. “A great array of our brothers, sisters and friends tramp sorrowfully to the Land of the Shades.”

Her fingers were raised to the skies. “Only the okis know where they go. Do you think I escaped!” She ripped open the neck of her tunic and showed the bruises and cuts on back and shoulders. “I was saved by Teanaosti.”

Her fingers moved in a slow arc to where he sat by the fire and her eyes met his, glazed with the fury that flared within her. “Think you well of our woes, O people, then act as Ouendats would act. The biggest town of our nation has been given over to fire and short-axe. Where are our warriors who went hunting for Iroquois? Where is Enons, the chief who would lead as Anaotaka would lead? Ask him and them why they went away when the Hodenosaunee came. If it were fighting they sought, it could have been found here. Are we the Clan of the Cord to suffer without retaliation? Ask Enons and his warriors this when they return!”

She stopped abruptly, as one drained of strength by the intensity of emotion. Slowly she hitched up her dress and walked over to Godfrey. “Hinonaia was here. There are those who saw her.”

He jumped to his feet. “Who saw her? Bring them here!”

Arakoua looked at him sharply. There was grit in his voice, a steel rasp that she had not heard before. “The Guardian of the River has a heart of granite,” she laughed, and called two of the fugitives. “They came from the trees when the sun dipped behind the pines.”

A withered warrior, the faded blue of tattoo marks blending into the lines etched by age, approached. “Speak, ancient, of this witch Hinonaia!” Arakoua commanded.

So shaken by fear was the elder that not so much as by a glance did he show resentment of the address. “I was by the maples, at the edge of the ravine, when I heard the war cry. There was one escape, to hide in the thick leaves of the tree. I climbed to the top. I could see the golden maiden in many wampums urging on the warriors.”

“Her form? Her face?” Godfrey snapped.

“The sun was in her hair and it shone red and gold, and golden was the skin of her. She is of the Great Spirit come to destroy our land. As many chiefs as the fingers of my hand guard her.”

“The Five Nations Confederacy, a chief of each nation,” Godfrey murmured; then aloud. “There is some trickery here. What more did your eyes see?”

“There is no trickery. I saw!” The thin voice quavered denial. “She is an evil spirit to bewitch us. My eyes saw not her face, for years have dimmed them. All my mind knows is that one of every three in Teanaostaiaë was taken away.”

Godfrey started. “It is impossible. Your eyes are playing you false.”

“It is truth,” Arakoua snarled. “Listen to this woman.”

“It is so.” The woman’s voice shook. “As many houses as the fingers of my two hands were marched away. We who marched were beaten with many blows. Some stumbled and died on the way. In the hurry I escaped. Others may have done the same. My eyes did not see.”

Godfrey was silent. Not only had Teanaostaiaë ceased to exist, and Exhiondastsaan with it, but, with 500 taken captive, the Clan of the Cord had been dispersed. The southern frontier of Huronia was wiped out. Only St. Ignace remained to the Cord. “This Little Thunder,” he asked slowly, “did your eyes see her?”

“Once and from a distance. Her hair burned as fire and her skin was of the gold of the sun.”

“Her face?”

“My eyes did not see her face.”

“You see, O Teanaosti, Hinonaia is real!” Arakoua cried.

“Yes, so real the people curl up with fright when they think of her,” he growled.

Arakoua stamped her foot in vexation and returned to her camp fire.

The hunting and scalping parties straggled back to the dead ashes of their town after dawn and with them stumbled a remnant of survivors, men, women and children. They came quietly and in single file as do people who enter the presence of death, the women and children to mourn aloud, the warriors to sit with narrowed eyes before the wide ditch that once fronted the palisades. Godfrey crossed the ditch to search the ashes of the church. He waited impassively while the soldiers prodded diligently the square on which the bark church had stood. Nothing had escaped the intensity of the fire. Godfrey was glad. Cremation was the easiest way to dispose of the victims. A warrior came to join him. “Ah, Thodatouan.” Godfrey looked with pleased eyes at the war chief of the Bear Clan.

Thodatouan’s face was blue with rage. He struck his plucked head with short-axe and made the six eagle feathers of his rank jump crazily from the round brush of stiff hair on the crown.

“I came to warn the Cord Clan, even as I sent a messenger to warn you. I, Thodatouan, came here because the need was greater. My brother, Annaotaka, had gone to Te Iatontarie with his warriors, and those left behind are as women made foolish. Had they remained on guard, their axes would have been red not white, and their hearts rejoicing not sorrowing.”

“It was to be,” Godfrey answered stolidly.

“The Little Thunder!” Thodatouan snarled the name. “She bewitches us, makes us as children. Who can fight against an oki?”

“My heart does not agree to that, O Chief.” Godfrey covered his irritation with an air of consideration. “I think you will find trickery behind this woman.”

“There may be trickery, as you say.” The chief walked toward the open fields. “The Hodenosaunee have never been defeated when she leads them.”

“Does she lead or is she led?” Godfrey asked.

Thodatouan’s reply was silenced by a young man saluting ceremoniously. Five feathers nodding above thick hair, falling to the buttocks in four heavy braids, proclaimed him a sub-chief and something of a dandy. Thodatouan scowled at him. “I came to warn you to guard well your palisades, O Enons, and I find no palisades to guard and no people to guard them.”

The reproof was given in a harsh voice and each word of it was heard by the fifteen score survivors, gathered about them. Enons quivered with rage. Only the rank of Thodatouan and the prestige of Godfrey prevented an outburst. He smothered his passion with difficulty. “I went forth to fight the Hodenosaunee and Hinonaia bewitched me and my warriors.” He waited for the chief to speak and when he did not, added more steadily. “Our houses are burned, they will stand again.”

“Not here,” Thodatouan advised. “This place is accursed. The souls of the old and the young, too weak to journey past Ekarenniondi to the Land of the Shades, will remain and accuse you of their deaths.”

Enons scratched a paint-daubed cheek. He eyed the stolid group about him. “There is Totiri, the great arendiwan. He shall speak to the spirits and advise us.”

The withered sorcerer heard the pronouncement sourly. He was of no mind to practise his art under the disapproving eyes of Godfrey. He glared defiance, shambled to where wind-strewn leaves lay upon the ground and crouched over them, thin shanks drawn up until knobby knees were even with sunken cheeks. Balanced on the ball of his feet he stared at the leaves. For a space of minutes he stared, then a black bug appeared, waved its antennae and fled to the shelter of the pile. Totiri fell back, hands clawing the earth and legs jerking spasmodically. The survivors waited tensely, apprehensively for him to speak. At length he lay quiet, wiped the froth from his lips, and sat up. He spoke in a high, piercing whisper.

“In spirit, I was lifted high into aronhia, the place of the clouds, and from there I looked down upon the Land of the Shades. I saw Ekarenniondi, and beyond it that swift river which all must cross. And Eataentsic I saw, he who cares for our souls and who gives us this life, even as he shortens this life if we listen not to him. He saw me, and with me he came to earth. In the form of a beetle he came, so that we might see him and know how small we are in his sight. And he said to me, ‘O Totiri, greatest of the arendiwans, you know my wishes as no other knows them in all Ouendake. I give you good words. You speak them to my people and say to them to be guided by the counsel of Teanaosti.’ ”

Totiri stretched himself to full height, a lath set upright among bronze statues of flesh and muscle, and glanced at Godfrey with eyes sparkling malicious triumph. He threw both hands toward the sky. “So says the great Eataentsic from his home in aronhia overhead, where I have been in spirit.”

Godfrey eyed Totiri coldly. He saw the trap. The sorcerer with quick cunning had placed responsibility upon him. If his decision was not popular, Godfrey knew his prestige would be weakened, if favourable, then Totiri would take credit for making good magic. Either way, Totiri’s shrewd move stood to benefit him.

Godfrey smiled scornfully. “My heart tells me of a fine meadowland close by waters of Isiaragui. The ground is fruitful for corn, and the woods and wild-rice for the hunt.”

Arakoua spoke quickly. “The spirit was wise and just. Teanaosti’s words are good.”

Thodatouan grunted approval and he was joined by the survivors. Enons watched the crowd sharply. A Huron chief seldom attempted to lead. His actions and decisions reflected public opinion. Enons voiced approval. “The spirit has advised well. Teanaosti will show us our new home.”

As the people dispersed, Arakoua sidled up to Godfrey, with sly smile. “Did I not stop Totiri? His mind was to ruin you.”

“Your heart was good.”

“My heart would not have a dried heap of bones laugh at my Guardian of the River. Some moon I will have him killed,” she promised virtuously.

Godfrey opened lips to reprove and closed them quickly. The day might come when he could benefit by this promise. He changed the subject. “What of your wampums?”

She flashed him a smile and sped toward the forest.

The shift of an Indian village from one site to another, even that of a big town, was a simple affair. Every Huron community moved, at least once, in a decade. Exhaustion of the soil from crude agricultural methods was one cause, epidemic due to lack of sanitation was another. Bark houses were easy of construction and family possessions—fur robes, skins and rude pottery—were meagre. When a village was destroyed by fire migration was simplicity in itself. The survivors of Teanaostaiaë made a frugal breakfast of such sagamite as the warriors had not consumed in the forest, dragged canoes from concealment and were ready to leave.

Arakoua invited herself into the canoe set aside for Thodatouan and Godfrey, without a glance at Enons, who sat scowling and alone in his craft, waiting for her. “A heart of a rabbit,” she mumbled. “His feet should be pursuing the Hodenosaunee, not moving the other way.”

Godfrey grunted as she reached for paddle. Attired in white wampums and enkara of beads, the rippling surge of muscles, from shoulders to breech-clout, reminded him of the ease and grace of a fawn.

It was to be a water trip, down the River of Cold Water to Waubaushene and Matchedash Bay, a circuitous route, but one which would prevent further scattering of the survivors. The flotilla was sped by swift current. It was hot work and Godfrey soon divested himself of upper garments and paddled nude to the waist. Arakoua glanced over her shoulder, laughed approval of his brown, hair-covered chest and muscles that stood out as cord knots.

At the mouth of Ahonta, a small stream taking name from its concealment by brambled thickets, Thodatouan turned the canoe to shore. “A quick way to the big, stone house on the river,” he said. “You can save weary trails by going this way, for we will come down from the wide waters, and you have a message to give Aondecheté.”

The two Hurons, with Philip and Louis, joined him. Sped by a freezing farewell from Arakoua, they took the short road to Fort Ste. Marie. It was a tortuous route of waterway and portage. At times, trees grew outward from each bank and met above them and the air was lifeless in its heat, save for the swarm of biting, stinging insects. Portages where thorn bushes gripped and tore made the journey the more difficult. It was with glad hearts that they reached the muddy shores of Isiaragui.