Читать книгу The Champlain Road - Franklin Davey McDowell - Страница 12

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The father superior awaited Godfrey at the inner basin, a tragic figure in the shadow of the twin bastions. A quick glance and his face aged ten years in a second. He placed a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder. “My boy, do not speak as yet. Walk with me.”

Slowly they passed through the northern gate and crossed the courtyard to the great hall of the residence. The sentry eyed them questioningly and saluted punctiliously, but the Father Superior had no eyes to see. He moved as one set apart by grief. In the great hall, its lofty beamed ceiling and oaken walls darkened by the smoke of the pine knot and the torch, he hunched forward in the high-backed chair, in the centre of the long, trestle table. He motioned Godfrey to the bench opposite him, thought for a moment, moistened his lips and spoke. “It would be fitting that Father Le Mercier and Father Chastelain should be present. Also, have a man bring you some refreshments from the kitchen.”

Father Le Mercier came quickly, worried lines drawing down his mouth. The three sat in silence until Father Chastelain arrived. Pierre Chastelain, Spiritual Director of the Mission to the Hurons, a confessor of the members of the order, and an adviser, personal and official, of the Father Superior, was a man of learning and intellectual strength. Godfrey noted that his finely moulded features, which marked at once his asceticism and strong religious convictions, was pallid. The Father Superior motioned him to a seat on the bench, at his left. “The word is bad, as we feared. I have waited so that we may hear it together,” he muttered, as Father Le Mercier took place at his right.

A serving man came, placed food on the table and noiselessly left the hall. Godfrey ignored the wooden platter and launched into his report. Father Ragueneau stared out of a window, innocent of glass, and in winter covered only by skin. Godfrey knew that while he listened he was contrasting the thickness of the stone postern he saw to the open gate at Teanaostaiaë. Father Le Mercier sat as if carved of stone, eyes set on Godfrey. Father Chastelain had slumped forward, arms on table and hands to face. “And that is the story, mon père,” Godfrey concluded, “as I have reconstructed it from observation and what I heard.”

The Father Superior glanced down the table to where Father Daniel usually sat at the periodic conferences of the missionaries, and his eyes, filled with pain, lingered there. “His place will know him no more, nor shall we see him again on earth.” He sighed. “It has been said that the blood of martyrs is the seed of the Church, that the Missions to the Hurons had not received this mark of heavenly favour. The blood of one of our most devout has now been shed. It is God’s will and in His service, but none the less our hearts are heavy.”

Father Chastelain raised his head, eyes wet. “This Hinonaia is a veritable child of the devil. A great blow has been given to the mission. Father Daniel’s work is completely destroyed.”

The Father Superior put aside his personal grief for the moment. He again became the rock upon which Fort Ste. Marie stood. Lines of age were erased as darkness is dissolved by the sun. Eyes brightened in reflection of the resolute spirit within him. He looked at Father Le Mercier, staring thoughtfully at the scrubbed, pine boards of the table. “Godfrey, as I know to my sorrow, had a better understanding of the situation than had I. In my heart there was hope that this would not come to pass. He was without hope and he was right.” Father Ragueneau’s fingers gripped table edge until they showed white. “We are without a southern defence—if the survivors move northward.”

“There is the Clan of the Lone White House, at Scanonaenrat,” Father Le Mercier remarked. “Father Chaumonot established the strong mission of St. Michel, there, before he was transferred to Ossossanë. It is a little more than a league, north and west, from Teanaostaiaë.”

Godfrey nodded with understanding. He had admiration for François Le Mercier that was tinged with wonder. Slight of frame, sallow and thin of face, and stooped of shoulder, he was a battery of energy. A driving force, such as animated him, was required of the Assistant to the Superior with its multifarious duties, and it would seem that the hours of the day were insufficient for his work. His was the responsibility for all activities of the residence from observance of rules and regulations to upkeep of buildings. The ailing and the sick were his charge and he supervised the conduct of the hospital. All receipts and disbursements passed through his hands as accountant-general, and he was an official adviser to the Father Superior. More than once Godfrey had speculated upon the reservoir of strength which sustained Father Le Mercier under such a load of responsibility; and this weight had more than doubled with the closing of the Champlain Road, and the destruction of Teanaostaiaë.

“It is a matter of policy with the Iroquois,” Father Ragueneau said. “They thrust as skilled swordsmen, strike at the heart and the whole body dies. Could we not persuade the people of Teanaostaiaë to settle again on the southern frontier?”

“Not at present, mon père,” Godfrey answered. “It was all Thodatouan and I could do to hold them together. They are without heart and hope. They look upon Hinonaia as a goddess of destruction.”

“We must not give way to despair. I am not a man of war but when our enemies are agents of evil we must fight with every weapon at our command. I do not imagine the Iroquois will attack in force again this year. This should give us an opportunity to prepare ourselves, to unite the Hurons in a common cause of defence. They must be—will be—united,” the Father Superior said desperately. “The life of this mission, of this outpost defence—everything—lies in our success.”

His sweeping gesture included the House of Ste. Marie, its farmlands and the broad leagues of the triple Huron Mission, itself,—the Mission of the Saints, in Huronia; the Mission of the Apostles, in the Tobacco Nation; and the Mission of the Angels, in the Neutral Country—a black-robed crusade of the Cross and the Crown reaching from the Algonquin island of Grand Manitoulin, on the northern rim of Lake Huron, to the boiling falls of Ouengiara, on the River of the Neutrals, between the great waters of Ontare and Erie, or wherever the Huron stock stemmed. Father Ragueneau’s eyes were troubled as he swept these far horizons in mind. He spoke with forced optimism. “The raid of last autumn was repulsed with many casualties.”

“Which the Iroquois have not forgotten.” There was a grim note in Godfrey’s voice. “They were busy elsewhere, harrying the Algonquins beyond the Ottawa and the Nipissing, clearing their flanks to attack us. And they remembered the lesson of last year.” Godfrey leaned forward. “There were two war parties of Iroquois. One came down from the Champlain Road, striking southward from Nipissing. The other came up the Iroquois Trail. They met at the Narrows, at the mouth of Couchiching, and united to strike at Teanaostaiaë.”

“Two war parties! The Iroquois Trail!” Father Ragueneau considered this information thoughtfully. In the background of the Iroquois Trail could be found a chapter of complete disaster to French prestige and Huron arms. He knew the story all too well in its futile detail. On September 8th, in 1615, Champlain and his Indian allies left Huronia over that trail to chastise the Five Nations. High with hope they crossed the Narrows, that neck of water connecting what the French called the Little Lake and the Algonquins, Couchiching, to Ouentaroni, the Fish Spearing Lake of the Hurons. Thence, they penetrated that region of lakes and channels known as Kawartha, the Realm of Bright Waters and Happy Lands, to where it emptied into Ontare, and then hugged the shoreline to the St. Lawrence. On the opposite shore the land of the Onondagas, geographical centre of the Five Nations Confederacy, lay open to them. Champlain and his Huron allies invaded this domain and the road terminated abruptly in a welter of blood and slaughter. Since that fateful day in late October, the Algonquin Realm of Bright Waters and Happy Lands was a solitude of death; and the road, itself, had become known as the Iroquois Trail, so decisive had been the defeat.

“The Champlain Road over-run as the Iroquois Trail!” the Father Superior exclaimed. “All Huronia is open to attack where the Iroquois will. We must effect a consolidation of the Petuns and Neutrals in a general scheme of defence.”

“The Petuns are merely a nation of tobacco growers,” Father Le Mercier argued. “They will continue to grow tobacco and trade it to Huron and Iroquois alike, as offerings to propitiate the okis in pagan ceremonies; and the Neutrals will live in a belief of security. The Iroquois have been afraid to attack them because of the immense deposits of flint in the Neutral country. They had to keep peace to obtain supplies of arrows and spearheads. Now, the Dutch are supplying them with muskets and lead and they do not require flint. No,” he shook his head pessimistically, “the Petuns and the Neutrals will sit back passively until the Iroquois eat them up, bite by bite, after they have swallowed the Hurons.”

“The weakness of the Hurons is their lack of vision and intolerance of authority. The parent has no authority over the child and the chief only a nominal authority over the warrior,” Father Chastelain said slowly. “We may persuade them to co-operate for common defence, especially when it is a matter of national survival. The Hurons are brave fighters when aroused, as we know from the last victory.”

“That was gained by the warriors of one clan,” Godfrey answered, “the Cord Clan, and Annaotaka was the chief. Even the most obstinate hesitate to cross him too far.”

“He is a deadly man and without mercy,” Father Ragueneau admitted. “I believe that he would slay his own daughter, Arakoua, should she seriously oppose him. Yet he is the only chief to win an outstanding victory—and he may win more upon his return.”

“The Iroquois attack by stealth, mon père. There was Contarea, once biggest town in Huronia.”

“Contarea was an iniquitous place,” Father Chastelain said severely. “The Rock Clan drove our missionaries away.”

“Because the sorcerers are always against us and they were particularly strong in Contarea. There was also Taenhatentaron, the Place of the Dry Pole, where we had the first mission of St. Ignace. Only this winter Father Brébeuf had it moved a league northward to the new St. Ignace for better natural defences. Not that such a move was important, except that it indicates lack of care in the selection of village sites. The new St. Ignace is one of our strongest places.”

“That move was not important, not like that of Cahiagué, the other big town of the Rock Clan, where our mission of St. Jean Baptiste stood. We had to abandon Cahiagué because it stood on the edge of the Iroquois Trail and was too open to attack.” The Father Superior frowned. “That was four months ago.”

“I suggest that we first endeavour to unite the Huron clans,” Father Le Mercier said crisply. “Later, we may attempt a general unification of the other two Huron nations.”

“The Hurons have dwindled from 30,000 people to less than 12,000 within a generation,” Godfrey amplified.

“More through disease than war,” Father Le Mercier added. “The result of their filthy, pagan habits. Even now the clans can muster 1,500 warriors if they unite. The Iroquois never exceeded 2,500 in numbers, and some must remain to protect other frontiers and to hunt. No, not more than a thousand or so will come again to Huronia—if they come.”

“The Petuns are barbarous and cruel,” Father Chastelain said sorrowfully. “Father Garreau gave me some examples of their revolting acts in their war with the Fire Nation, of the Algonquins. After capturing one town they burned more than threescore of the best warriors without mercy, put out the eyes of the old men and cut away their lips, and left them to drag out a miserable existence. I should say they are as savage as the Iroquois.”

“The Hurons and Neutrals are as bad!” Godfrey said. “If the King would only send over a few regiments from France, we could conquer the Iroquois without trouble.”

“Impossible. There are domestic and international troubles,” Father Ragueneau explained. “And the treasury is all but empty.”

“If it weren’t for that unfortunate grant made by the King to Madame de Guercheville,” Godfrey said meditatively, “we might form an alliance with the Puritans to thrash the Iroquois.”

The Father Superior stiffened in his chair. He eyed his captain curiously. The Assistant Superior and the Spiritual Director moved uncomfortably. Godfrey impassively looked at each in turn. He had touched upon a subject generally ignored by common consent—the failure of Louis XIV, a generation before, to create a vast, spiritual empire of the Cross in North America by a blanket grant of lands from Florida to the St. Lawrence to a court favourite, conditional upon a theocratic administration of the new state and the conversion of the natives to Catholicism. Theoretically it was a magnificent conception of uniting the Church with the Crown in a colonization project; practically it brought new difficulties to the struggling colony of New France.

Father Ragueneau stared long at his capable hands. “It was an unfortunate grant,” he admitted. “The resentment of the English and the Dutch was natural. Old racial sores opened. The English captured New France twice but returned it to us, and now we find ourselves isolated by suspicion and political animosities.” He shook his head and peered at Godfrey as if to read his innermost thoughts. “Do you imagine an alliance with the Puritans against the Iroquois would be effective?”

“It would be the logical one to make, mon père. I am afraid it could not be effected.”

“Ah, these wars, these jealousies among nations!” Father Chastelain twisted his sparse, greying beard. “Who knows that these New Englanders might not turn against us, as did the Virginians, in 1615, when they all but wrecked Acadia, or, in ’28, when that ferocious Kirk, with his buccaneer brother, captured Quebec and threatened to ruin the fortunes of New France.”

“New France was returned to us again, Father,” Godfrey smiled. He looked at the Father Superior. “As I remember, mon père, you were taken prisoner to England when Quebec surrendered.”

“Many incidents have happened to our order, Godfrey. Both Argall, of Virginia, and Kirk took our fathers prisoners. Indeed, Father Charles Lalemant, our first Superior and brother of our present Superior, was carried away to England and on his return trip was shipwrecked twice, narrowly escaping with his life each time. Father Brébeuf saw the inside of an English prison, with others of our brothers taken when Quebec fell.”

“I have often wondered,” Father Chastelain smoothed his beard, “the cause of the bitter hatred of the Iroquois for the Huron. They are of the same family.”

“No one knows,” Father Ragueneau answered sadly. “It is an ancient feud, so old no one can remember. Like a forgotten sin its evil lives on.”

“As you see it then, we must stand by ourselves?” Father Le Mercier asked.

“That is the difficulty, Father.” Godfrey answered. “The Hurons are a group of independent clans without sense of national unity. The Iroquois are a league of nations in the truest sense of the word, and fight as a unit. Before an attack each chief’s position is shown by sticks stuck in the ground and as the big war chief moves the sticks, so the men are moved in actual battle. Often the weakest of the Five Nations, the Onedias or the Onandagas, furnish the supreme chiefs on a campaign.”

“The Hurons are brave. They repulsed the Iroquois last autumn,” Father Chastelain remarked.

“A minor victory among many major defeats,” Godfrey told the Spiritual Director. “Do not forget the old saying, that the Iroquois are the nobles of the forest, the Hurons the burghers and the Algonquins the peasants and paupers. The Iroquois have the élan, the leadership.”

Father Le Mercier looked up. “At present we can do little. When Annaotaka and his warriors return from Quebec, the Hurons may recover from their fright.”

“Annaotaka is a thorough-going pagan. We can do nothing with him,” Father Chastelain said with asperity. “I consider him a menace to our work.”

“He is a pagan but also a fighter,” the Assistant Superior countered. “If he can infuse a new spirit in the Hurons it will be most helpful.”

The Father Superior dismissed the subject in a sentence. “We can only hope that Annaotaka will be able to persuade the Cord people to rebuild their village. In the meantime, they must settle where Godfrey suggested, and it would be well for us to give them the prestige of a new mission. Father Chastelain could not possibly undertake new duties: Father Garnier has just returned for a few days from the Mission of the Apostles and we will extend his absence, so that he may take over this work for the present.”

“I would suggest, mon père, that we be careful to do nothing that will make the village appear permanent. We want them to return to the south.”

Father Ragueneau regarded his captain thoughtfully. “They may insist upon palisaded protection and, if so, we must acquiesce. And they will be due to pass here in three hours, or so. We must give them no encouragement to stop.”

The Assistant Superior was quick to agree. “We have sheltered the starving and the distressed during the winter, often to the number of 6,000, but we have never done so in the summer. Were they to stop here now, they would stay indefinitely and we would not have a pig or a chicken left; indeed I should fear for our cattle. No, we dare not set such a precedent.”

The Father Superior nodded his agreement. “There is but one thing to do. Godfrey will accompany Father Garnier, with the two soldiers whom he took to Teanaostaiaë (they know many of the people, now) to await the survivors at the meadow, and we will send a raft immediately after them with sufficient food for a week. It will be issued out of the stores at once and poled down to Isiaragui. I will send the two Hurons, who came with Godfrey, to meet the party and acquaint them with the arrangements made. They can say that later I will come down to greet them.”

“It is the only possible step to take.” Father Le Mercier stood up. “In summer a horde of Indians would be as a plague of locusts. Our fields and our live-stock would be ruined. I will give the necessary orders for the raft of foodstuff at once.”

Godfrey twisted on the bench and looked glum.

The Father Superior eyed him quizzically, as Father Le Mercier bustled out. He permitted a shadow of a smile to light his eyes. “You have been having trouble with Arakoua?”

“She is not to be overlooked, mon père, but it is Totiri who worries me. Arakoua hates him for some reason, or other, and between them there may be trouble.”

“I had not thought of the sorcerer.” The Father Superior was serious. “He may prove to be a serious danger. You will receive good counsel from Father Garnier. He knows the Indian mind as you know it, an ideal combination to deal with any difficulty which may arise. As for Arakoua, I must leave her to your own good judgment.”

A pronouncement which Godfrey heard with vague misgivings.