Читать книгу The Road to Frontenac - Merwin Samuel, Webster Henry Kitchell - Страница 5

When Menard reached the wharf, early on the following morning, he found Father Claude waiting for him. The new canoe lay on the wharf, and beside it was a heap of stores. Perrot and the two new engagés sat on the edge of the wharf. The sun had just risen over the trees on St. Helen’s Island, and the air was clear and cool.

“Well, Perrot,” said Menard, as he unslung his musket and horn, “is everything ready?”

“Everything, M’sieu.”

“Where is Guerin?”

“I have not seen him, M’sieu.”

Menard turned to the priest.

“Good-morning, Father. You are on time, I see; and that is more than we can say for Danton. Where is the boy?”

“He has gone for Mademoiselle St. Denis, Captain. He was here before the sunrise, checking up the stores.”

“Learning to work, is he? That is a good sign. And how about yourself? Did you pick up anything yesterday?”

“Yes,” replied the priest. “I enquired at the Mission about Teganouan and his companions.”

“Well?”

“Nothing is known of them. Teganouan had been one of the worst drunkards among the Onondagas, and his conversion, a year ago, was thought to be one of our greatest victories for the faith. His penances were among the most complete and purging ever–”

“And the others?”

“Just before I left the Mission for Quebec, Teganouan went on an errand to the city and fell among some of our fellow-countrymen who were having a drinking bout. For a few days after that he wavered, and fell again. Once afterward he was seen in company with two low fellows, coureurs de bois, who have since been confined under suspicion of communicating with the enemy.”

“He has returned to the Mission, then?”

“No, he disappeared some time ago. They do not know the Long Arrow. I described him to Brother de Lamberville–”

“Oh, he is here now?”

“Yes. It seems, further, that all the other workers among the Iroquois have had word and are returning. That much of my labour is removed.”

“How do they get this word?” said Menard, impatiently. “That is the old question. It is enough to make one wonder if there are any secrets kept from the enemy’s country.”

“No one seems to know, M’sieu. The Superior told me last night that they had not been sent for, so it would seem that the information must have reached them through the Indians.”

“The folly of these new governors!” Menard strode back and forth. “Oh, it makes one sigh for old Frontenac. He never walked blindfolded into such a trap as this. But go on. You were speaking of Father de Lamberville.”

“It was only that I described the Long Arrow to Brother de Lamberville. He seemed to remember such a wampum collar as the Long Arrow wore. He could not recall exactly.”

“Then we may as well forget the incident. It seems that we are to know nothing of it. Here is Danton.”

The lieutenant and the maid were walking rapidly down to the wharf. Mademoiselle was in a gay mood after her few hours of enjoyment among the comforts of a city.

“Good-morning,” she called, waving her hand.

“Good-morning,” said Menard, shortly. He did not look a second time, to see her smile fade, for Guerin had not appeared, and he was rapidly losing patience. He walked up and down the wharf for a few moments, while Danton found a seat for the maid and the two talked together.

“Perrot,” he said, “do you know where Guerin was last evening?”

“Yes, M’sieu. He was at the inn.”

“What was he doing? Drinking?”

“A little, M’sieu.”

“Go up there, on the run. If you don’t find him there, come right back, for we can’t wait much longer for anyone.”

Perrot ran up the street and disappeared. In a few moments he came in sight, striding down between the row of houses, holding Guerin firmly by one arm. The young fellow was hanging back, and stumbling in limp fashion. He was evidently drunk. Danton, who had joined Menard when the two men appeared, said, “Heavens, he must have started early!”

Some distance behind Perrot and Guerin came a ragged crowd of woodsmen, singing, jeering, and shouting, and bearing broad traces of a sleepless night.

Menard stood waiting with a look of disgust. When they came upon the wharf Guerin laughed, and tried to get out a flippant apology for his tardiness; but Menard seized him before the words were off his lips, and dragging him across the wharf threw him into the water. Then he turned to Perrot, and said, “Pull him out.”

The two new men stood uneasily near, with startled faces. Behind them the maid was sitting, a frightened look in her eyes. Danton had risen.

“Clear away from here!” Menard called to the drunken rabble, who had collected a few rods away, and were now hesitating between laughter and fright. They stood looking at each other and at Menard, then they slunk away.

In all an hour had gone before they were ready to start. Guerin was weak and shivering from his plunge, but Menard ordered him into the canoe. The incident drew a cloud over the maid’s spirits, and altogether depressed the party, so that not until afternoon did they get into conversation. By that time they were past the Lachine Rapids and the Sault St. Louis, where the men made a portage, and Danton led the maid along the bank through the tangled brush and briers. When at last they were ready to push on across Lake St. Louis the maid’s skirt was torn in a dozen places, and a thorn had got into her hand, which Danton carefully removed with the point of his knife, wincing and flushing with her at each twinge of pain. During the rest of the day, they had an Iroquois lesson, and by the end of the afternoon when the sun was low, and Menard headed for the shore of Isle Perrot, the maid was bright again, laughing over Danton’s blunders in the new language.

They spent the next day on the island, for what with wind and rain the lake was impassable for their canoe. The men built a hut of brush and bark which sheltered the party from the driving rain. Menard’s mood lightened at the prospect of a rest, and he started a long conversation in Iroquois which soon had even Father Claude laughing in his silent way. The rain lessened in the afternoon, but the wind was still running high. Menard and the engagés went out early in the afternoon and repacked all the supplies, in order that the weight might be distributed more evenly in the canoe. With this and other work he was occupied until late in the afternoon. Father Claude took the occasion for a solitary walk, and for meditation. When Menard entered the hut he found the maid sitting with her head resting against one of the supporting trees. She wore a disturbed, unsettled expression. Danton evidently had been sitting or standing near her, for when Menard entered, stooping, he was moving across the hut in a hesitating, conscious manner. The Captain looked at them curiously.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to take away a part of your house to pay for your supper,” he said. “Everything is wet outside that might do for firewood. Lend a hand, Danton.” He gathered logs and sticks from the floor and walls, and carried them out. Danton, after a quick look toward the maid (which, of course, Menard saw), did the same.

The Captain was the first to reenter the hut. The maid had not moved, and her eyes were puzzled and wearied, but she tried to smile.

“Has it stopped raining?” she asked.

Menard gave her an amused glance, and pointed to a sparkling beam of sunlight that came slanting in through an opening in the wall, and buried itself in a little pool of light on the trampled ground. She looked at it, flushed, and turned her eyes away. He stood for a moment, half minded to ask the question that was on his tongue, but finally held it back. In a moment Danton came back, looking suspiciously at each of them as he stooped to gather another armful of wood.

Menard was thoughtful during the evening meal. Afterward he slipped his arm through Father Claude’s, and led him for a short walk, giving him an account of the incident. “I didn’t say anything at the time,” he concluded, “partly because I thought I might be mistaken, and partly because it would have been the worst thing I could do. I begin to see–I should have foreseen it before I spoke to him about the girl–that we have trouble ahead, Father, with these precious children. I confess I don’t know just what to do about it. We must think it over. Anyway, you had better talk to her. She would tell you what she wouldn’t tell me. If he’s annoying her, we must know it.”

Father Claude was troubled.

“The maid is in our care,” he said, “and also in that of Lieutenant Danton. It would seem that he–”

“There’s no use in expecting him to take any responsibility, Father.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right. He is a child.”

“Will you go to the maid, Father, and get straight at the truth? You see that I cannot meddle with her thoughts without danger of being misinterpreted. It is you who must be her adviser.”

The priest acquiesced, and they returned to the camp, to find the maid still sitting alone, with a troubled face, and Danton puttering about the fire with a show of keeping himself occupied. They ate in silence, in spite of Menard’s efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in gathering about the fire. Menard saw that Father Claude had it in mind to speak to the maid, so he got Danton away on a pretext of looking over the stores. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all their minds, preferring to await the priest’s report.

After the maid had gone to her couch beneath the canoe, and Danton had wandered into the wilderness that was all about them, Father Claude joined Menard at the fire.

“Well, Father, what word?”

“Softly, M’sieu. It is not likely that she sleeps as yet.”

“Well?”

“I have talked long with her, but she is of a stubborn mind.”

“How is that?”

“She was angry at first. She spoke hastily, and asked me in short terms to leave her in solitude. And then, after a time, when she began to see that it was her welfare and our duty which I had in mind, and not an idle curiosity, she was moved.”

“Did she speak then?”

“No, M’sieu, she wept, and insisted that there was no trouble on her mind,–it was merely the thought of her home and her father that had cast her down.”

“And so she has pride,” mused Menard. “Could you gather any new opinions, Father? Do you think that they may already have come to some understanding?”

“I hardly think so, M’sieu. But may I suggest that it would be well to be firm with Lieutenant Danton? He is young, and the maid is in our trust,”

“True, Father. I will account for him.”

There seemed to be nothing further to do at the moment, so the priest went to his blanket, and Menard drew a bundle under his head and went to sleep, after a glance about the camp to see that the sentry was on watch. Now that Montreal lay behind, and the unsettled forest before, with only a thin line of Frenchmen stretched along the river between them and Fort Frontenac, he had divided the night into watches, and each of the four engagés stood his turn.

The following day was all but half gone before the wind had dropped to a rate that made the passage of the lake advisable. Menard ordered the noon meal for an hour earlier than usual, and shortly afterward they set out across the upper end of Lake St. Louis to the foot of the cascades. Before the last bundle had been carried up the portage to Buisson Pointe, the dusk was settling over the woods across the river, and over the rising ground on Isle Perrot at the mouth of the Ottawa.

During the next day they passed on up the stream to the Coteau des Cedres. Menard and Father Claude were both accustomed to take the rapid without carrying, or even unloading, but Danton looked at the swirling water with doubt in his eyes. When the maid, leaning back in the canoe while the men halted at the bank to make fast for the passage, saw the torrent that tumbled and pitched merrily down toward them, she laughed. To hold a sober mood for long was not in her buoyant nature, and she welcomed a dash of excitement as a relief from the strained relations of the two days just gone.

“M’sieu,” she called to Menard, with a sparkle in her eyes. “Oh, M’sieu, may I stay in the canoe?”

Danton turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and a look, half of pain, half of surprise, came over his face as he saw her eagerness. Menard looked at her in doubt.

“It may be a wet passage, Mademoiselle.”

“And why not, M’sieu? Have I not been wet before? See, I will protect myself.” She drew the bundles closely about her feet, and threw a blanket across her knees. “Now I can brave the stream, Captain. Or,”–her gay tone dropped, and she looked demurely at him,–“perhaps it is that I am too heavy, that I should carry myself up the bank. I will obey my orders, Captain.” But as she spoke she tucked the blanket closer about her, and stole another glance at Menard.

He smiled. He was thinking of Madame Gordeau and her fragile daughter, who had shuddered with fear at a mere glimpse of the first rapid. “Very well,” he said, “Mademoiselle shall stay in the canoe.”

“But it is not safe”–broke in Danton, stepping forward. Then, conscious of the blunder, he turned away, and took up the rope.

“Lay hold, boys,” said Menard.

Perrot and one of the new men waded into the water, and laid hold of the gunwales on each side of the bow. Menard himself took the stern. He called to Danton, who stood awkwardly upon the bank, “Take the rope with the men.”

Guerin made the rope fast and set out ahead, with the other men and Danton close behind. Father Claude rolled up his robe and joined them.

“Wait,” called Menard, as the rope straightened. “Mademoiselle, I am sorry to disturb you, but if you will sit farther back you will have less trouble from the spray.” He waded along the side, and helped her to move nearer the stern, placing the bundles and the blanket about her as before. Then he shouted, “All right,” and they started into the foaming water.

They toiled slowly up the incline, catching at rocks to steady their course, and often struggling for a foothold. Once Menard ordered a halt at a large rock, and all rested for a moment.

When they started again, the men at the bow of the canoe had some trouble in holding it steady, for their feet were on a stretch of smooth rock, and Menard called Danton back to help them. The boy worked his way along the rope, and reached the bow.

“Come around behind Perrot,” said Menard.

Danton reached around Perrot’s body, and caught hold of the gunwale. At that moment his foot slipped, and he fell, dragging the side of the canoe down with him. The men at the bow did their best to prevent a capsize, but succeeded only in keeping half the bundles in the canoe. The others, the muskets, and the maid went into the river.

Menard moved forward as rapidly as he could against the current. The maid was unable at once to get her feet, used as she was to the water, and was swept down against him. He caught her, and, steadying himself with one hand, by the water-logged canoe, raised her head and held her while she struggled for a footing and shook the water from her eyes. Before she was wholly herself, Danton came plunging toward them.

“Give her to me!” he said huskily. “I’ve drowned her! My God, let me have her!”

“Stop,” said Menard, sternly. “Take the men, and go after those bales–quick!”

Danton looked stupidly at him and at the maid, who was wiping the water from her face with one hand, and holding tightly to the Captain. Then he followed Perrot, who had already, with the two new men and Father Claude, commenced to get together the bales, most of which had sunk, and were moving slowly along the bottom. Menard still had his arm about the girl’s shoulders. He helped her to the shore.

“Keep moving, Mademoiselle,–don’t sit down. In a moment we shall have a fire. Father Claude,” he called, “bring the canoe ashore.” Then to the maid, “There are yet some dry blankets, thank God.”

Mademoiselle was herself now, and she protested. “But it is only water, M’sieu. Let me go on with you, beyond the rapids.”

Menard merely shook his head. The canoe was soon on the bank, and emptied of water. The other men were beginning to come in with soaked bundles and dripping muskets. Each bale was opened, and the contents spread out to dry, while Guerin was set to work at drying the muskets with a cloth. Perrot and Danton built a rough shelter for the maid, enclosing a small fire, and gave her some dry blankets. Then each man dried himself as best he could.

This accident threw Danton into a fit of gloominess from which nothing seemed to arouse him. He was careless of his duty, and equally careless to the reprimands that followed. This went on for two days, during which the maid seemed at one moment to avoid him, and at another to watch for his coming. In the evening of the second day following, the party camped at Pointe à Baudet, on Lake St. Francis. The supper was eaten in a silence more oppressive than usual, for neither Menard nor Father Claude could overcome the influence of Danton’s heavy face and the maid’s troubled eyes. After the supper the two strolled away, and sat just out of earshot on a mossy knoll. For hours they talked there, their voices low, save once or twice when Danton’s rose. They seemed to have lost all count of time, all heed of appearances. Menard and the priest made an effort at first to appear unobservant, but later, seeing that their movements were beyond the sight of those unheeding eyes, they took to watching and speculating on the course of the conversation. The night came on, and the dark closed over them. Still the murmur of those low voices floated across the camp.