CHAPTER XIII.
FORT AMITIE.
The Fort stood high on a wooded slope around which the river sweptthrough narrows to spread itself below in a lake three miles wide andalmost thirty long. In shape it was quadrilateral with a frontage offifty toises and a depth of thirty, and from each angle of its stonewalls abutted a flanking tower, the one at the western angle tallerthan the others by a good twenty feet and surmounted by a flagstaff.
East, west, and south, the ground fell gently to the water's edge,entirely clear of trees: even their stumps had been uprooted tomake room for small gardens in which the garrison grew its cabbagesand pot-herbs; and below these gardens the Commandant's cows roamedin a green riverside meadow. At the back a rougher clearing, twocannon-shots in width, divided the northern wall from the dark tangleof the forest.
The canoe had been sighted far down the lake, and the Commandanthimself, with his brother M. Etienne and his daughter MademoiselleDiane, had descended to the quay to welcome the _voyageurs_.A little apart stood Sergeant Bedard, old Jeremie Tripier (formerlymajor-domo and general factotum at Boisveyrac, now at Fort Amitiepromoted to be _marechal des logis_), and five or six militiamen.And to John, as he neared the shore in the haze of a golden evening,the scene and the figures--the trim little stone fortress, the whitebanner of France transparent against the sky, the sentry like a toyfigure at the gate, the cattle browsing below, the group at theriver's brink--appeared as a tableau set for a child's play.
To add to the illusion, as the canoe came to the quay the sun sank, agun boomed out from the tallest of the four towers, and the flag randown its staff; all as if by clockwork. As if by clockwork, too, thetaller of the two old gentlemen on the quay--the one in a gold-lacedcoat--stepped forward with a wave of his hand.
"Welcome, welcome, my good Dominique! It will be news you bring fromBoisveyrac--more news of the great victory, perhaps? And who arethese your comrades?"
"Your servant, Monseigneur; and yours, Monsieur Etienne, and yours,Mademoiselle Diane!" Dominique brought his canoe alongside andsaluted respectfully. "All my own news is that we have gathered theharvest at Boisveyrac; a crop not far below the average, we hope.But Father Launoy desired me to bring you these strangers, who willtell of matters more important."
"It is the wounded man--the sergeant from Fort Carillon!" criedDiane, clasping her hands.
"Eh, my child? Nonsense, nonsense--he wears no uniform, as you see.Moreover, 'Polyte Latulippe brought word that he was lying at thepoint of death."
"It is he, nevertheless."
"Mademoiselle has guessed rightly," said Dominique. "It is thewounded soldier. I have lent him an outfit."
The Commandant stared incredulously from Dominique to John, from Johnto Menehwehna, and back again to John. A delightful smile irradiatedhis face.
"Then you bring us a good gift indeed! Welcome, sir, welcome to FortAmitie! where we will soon have you hale and strong again, if nursingcan do it."
Here, if John meant to play his part, was the moment for him tosalute. He half lifted his hand as he reclined, but let it fallagain. From the river-bank a pair of eyes looked down into his; darkgrey eyes--or were they violet?--shy and yet bold, dim and yetshining with emotion. God help him! This child--she could be littlemore--was worshipping him for a hero!
"Nay, sir, give it to me!" cried the Commandant, stooping by thequay's edge. "I shall esteem it an honour to grasp the hand of onewho comes from Fort Carillon--who was wounded for France in her hourof victory. Your name, my friend?--for the messengers who broughtword of you yesterday had not heard it, or perhaps had forgotten."
"My name is a Cleeve, monsieur."
"A Clive? a Clive? It is unknown to me, and yet it has a good sound,and should belong to _un homme Men ne_?" He turned inquiringlytowards his brother, a mild, elderly man with a scholar's stoop and aface which assorted oddly with his uniform of captain of militia,being shrivelled as parchment and snuff-dried and abstracted inexpression as though he had just lifted his eyes from a book."A Clive, Etienne. From what province should our friend derive?"
M. Etienne's eyes--they were, in fact, short-sighted--seemed tosearch inwardly for a moment before he answered:
"There was a family of that name in the Quercy; so late, I think, as1650. I had supposed it to be extinct. It bore arms counterpalyargent and gules, a canton ermine--"
"My brother, sir," the Commandant interrupted, "is a famousgenealogist. Do you accept this coat-of-arms he assigns to you?"
"If M. le Commandant will excuse me--"
"Eh, eh?--an awkward question, no doubt, to put to many a young manof family now serving with the colours?" The Commandant chuckledknowingly. "But I have an eye, sir, for nice shades, and an ear too._Verbum sapienti satis_. A sergeant, they tell me--and of theBearnais; but until we have cured you, sir, and the active list againclaims you, you are Monsieur a Clive and my guest. We shall talk,so, upon an easier footing. Tut-tut! I have eyes in my head, Irepeat. And this Indian of yours--how does he call himself?"
"Menehwehna, monsieur. He is an Ojibway."
"And you and he have come by way of the Wilderness? Now what puzzlesme--"
"Papa!" interposed the girl gently, laying a hand on her father'ssleeve; "ought we not to get him ashore before troubling him with allthese questions? He is suffering, I think."
"You say well, my child. A thousand pardons, sir. Here, Bedard!Jeremie!"
But it was Menehwehna who, with inscrutable face, helped John ashore,suffering the others only to hold the canoe steady. John tried hardto collect his thoughts to face this new situation. He had dreamedof falling among savages in these backwoods; but he had fallen amongfolk gentle in manner and speech, anxious to show him courtesy; folkto whom (as in an instant he divined) truth and uprightness weredearer than life and judged as delicately as by his own family athome in Devonshire. How came they here? Who was this girl whoseeyes he avoided lest they should weigh him, as a sister's might, inthe scales of honour?
A man may go through life cherishing many beliefs which areinternecine foes; unaware of their discordance, or honestly persuadedthat within him the lion and the lamb are lying down together,whereas in truth his fate has never drawn the bolts of their separatecages. John had his doubts concerning God; but something deeper thanreason within him detested a lie. Yet as a soldier he had acceptedwithout examination the belief that many actions vile in peace are inwar permissible, even obligatory; a loose belief, the limits of whichno man in his regiment--perhaps no man in the two armies--could havedefined. In war you may kill; nay, you must; but you must do it bycode, and with many exceptions and restrictions as to the how andwhen. In war (John supposed) you may lie; nay, again, in certaincircumstances you must.
With this girl's eyes upon him, worshipping him for a hero, Johndiscovered suddenly that here and now he could not. For an instant,as if along a beam of light, he looked straight into Militarism'ssham and ugly heart.
Yes, he saw it quite clearly, and was resolved to end the lie.But for the moment, in his bodily weakness, his will lagged behindhis brain. As a sick man tries to lift a hand and cannot, so hesought to rally his will to meet the crisis and was dismayed to findit benumbed and half-asleep.
They were ascending the slope, and still as they went theCommandant's voice was questioning him.
"Through the Wilderness! That was no small exploit, my friend, andit puzzles me how you came to attempt it; for you were severelywounded, were you not?"
"I received two wounds at Fort Carillon, monsieur. The proposal tomake across the woods was not mine. It came from the French sergeantin command of our boat."
"So--so. I ought to have guessed it. You were a whole boat's partythen, at starting?" John felt the crisis near; but the Commandant'smind was discursive, and he paused to wave a proprietary hand towardsthe walls and towers of his fortress. "A snug little shelter for thebackwoods--eh, M. a Clive? I am, you must know, a student of the artof fortification; _c'est m
a rengaine_, as my daughter will tell you,and I shall have much to ask concerning that famous outwork ofM. de Montcalm's, which touches my curiosity. So far as Damase couldtell me, Fort Carillon itself was never even in danger--" But hereMademoiselle Diane again touched his sleeve. "Yes, yes, to be sure,we will not weary our friend just now. We will cure him first; andwhile he is mending, you shall look out a new uniform from the storesand set your needle to work to render it as like as you can contriveto the Bearnais. Nay, sir, to her enthusiasm that will be but atrifle. Remember that you come to us crowned with laurels, and withnews for which we welcome you as though you brought a message fromthe General himself." A sudden thought fetched the Commandant to astandstill. "You are sure that the sergeant, your comrade, carriedno message?"
John paused with Menehwehna's arm supporting him.
"If he carried a message, monsieur, he told me of none."
Where were his faculties? Why were they hanging back and refusing tocome to grips with the crisis? Why did this twilit riverside persistin seeming unreal to him, and the actors, himself included, asfigures moving in a shadow-play?
Once, in a dream, he had seen himself standing at the wings of astage--an actor, dressed for his part. The theatre was crowded;someone had begun to ring a bell for the curtain to go up; and he,the hero of the piece, knew not one word of his part, could not evenremember the name of the play or what it was about. The dream hadbeen extraordinarily vivid, and he had awakened in a sweat.
"But," the Commandant urged, "he must have had some reason forstriking through the forest. What was his name?"
"Barboux."
John, as he answered, could not see Menehwehna's face; butMenehwehna's supporting arm did not flinch.
"Was he, too, of the regiment of Bearn?"
"He was of the Bearnais, monsieur."
"Tell us now. When the Iroquois overtook you, could he have passedon a message, had he carried one?"
While John hesitated, Menehwehna answered him. "It was I only whosaw the sergeant die," said Menehwehna quietly. He gave me nomessage."
"You were close to him?"
"Very close."
"It is curious," mused the Commandant, and turned to John again."Your falling in with the Iroquois, monsieur, gives me some anxiety;since it happens that a party from here and from Fort Frontenac wascrossing the Wilderness at about the same time, with messages for theGeneral on Lake Champlain. You saw nothing of them?"
Again Menehwehna took up the answer. "We met no one but theseIroquois," he said smoothly.
And as Menehwehna spoke the words John felt that everyone in thegroup about him had been listening for it with a common tension ofanxiety. He gazed around, bewildered for the moment by the lie.The girl stood with clasped hands. "Thank God!" he heard theCommandant say, lifting his hat.
What new mystery was here? Menehwehna stood with a face immobile andinscrutable; and John's soul rose up against him in rage andloathing. The man had dishonoured him, counting on his gratitude toendorse the lie. Well, he was quit of gratitude now. "To-morrow, myfine fellow," said he to himself, clenching his teeth, "the wholetale shall be told; between this and the telling you may save yourskin, if you can "; and so he turned to the Commandant.
"Monsieur," he said with a meaning glance at Menehwehna, "I beg youto accept no part of our story until I have told it through to you."
The Commandant was plainly puzzled. "Willingly, monsieur; but I begyou to consider the sufferings of our curiosity and be kind inputting a term to them."
"To-morrow--" began John, and looking up, came to a pause.Dominique Guyon had followed them up from the boat and was thrustinghimself unceremoniously upon the Commandant's attention.
"Since this monsieur mentions to-morrow," interrupted Dominiqueabruptly, "and before I am dismissed to supper, may I claim theSeigneur's leave to depart early to-morrow morning?"
The interruption was so unmannerly that John stared from one toanother of the group. The Commandant's face had grown very redindeed. Dominique himself seemed sullenly aware of his rudeness.But John's eyes came to rest on Mademoiselle Diane's; on her eyes foran instant, and then on her lashes, as she bent her gaze on theground--it seemed to him, purposely, and to avoid Dominique's.
"Dominique," said the Commandant haughtily, "you forget yourself.You intrude upon my conversation with this gentleman." His voiceshook and yet it struck John that his anger covered some anxiety.
"Monseigneur must forgive me," answered Dominique, still with anawkward sullenness. "But it is merely my dismissal that I beg.I wish to return early to-morrow to Boisveyrac; the harvest there isgathered, to be sure, but no one can be trusted to finish the stacks.With so many dancing attendance on the military, the Seigniorysuffers; and, by your leave, I am responsible for it."
He glared upon John, who gazed back honestly puzzled. The Commandantseemed on the verge of an explosion, but checked himself.
"My excellent Dominique Guyon," said he, "uses the freedom of an oldtenant. But here we are at the gate. I bid you welcome, Monsieur aClive, to my small fortress! Tut, tut, Dominique! We will talk ofbusiness in the morning."
Alone with Menehwehna in the bare hospital ward to which old Jeremieas _marechal des logis_ escorted them, John turned on the Ojibway andlet loose his indignation.
"And look you," he wound up, "this shall be the end. At daybreakto-morrow the gate of the fort will be opened. Take the canoe andmake what speed you can. I will give you until ten o'clock, but atthat hour I promise you to tell my tale to the Commandant, and totell him all."
"If my brother is resolved," said Menehwehna composedly, "let himwaste no words. What is settled is settled, and to be angry will dohis head no good."
He composed himself to sleep on the floor at the foot of John's bed,pulling his rug up to his ears. There were six empty beds in theward, and one had been prepared for him; but Menehwehna despisedbeds.
John awoke to sunlight. It poured in through three windows high inthe whitewashed wall opposite, and his first thought was to turn overand look for Menehwehna.
Menehwehna had disappeared.
John lay back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Menehwehnahad gone; he was free of him, and this day was to deliver his soul.In an hour or so he would be sitting under lock and key, but with aconscience bathed and refreshed, a companion to be looked in theface, a clear-eyed counsellor. The morning sunlight filled the roomwith a clean cheerfulness, and he seemed to drink it in through hispores. Forgetting his wound, he jumped out of bed with a laugh.
As he did so his eye travelled along the empty beds in the ward, andalong a row of pegs above them, and stiffened suddenly.
There were twelve pegs, and all were bare save one--the one in thewall-space separating his bed from the bed which had been preparedfor Menehwehna; and from this peg hung Sergeant Barboux's whitetunic.
It had not been hanging there last night when he dropped asleep: tothat he could take his oath. He had supposed it to be left behind inthe _armoire_ at Boisveyrac. For a full minute he sat on the bed'sedge gazing at it in sheer dismay, its evil menace closing like agrip upon his heart.
But by and by the grip relaxed as dismay gave room to rage, and withrage came courage.
He laughed again fiercely. Up to this moment he had always shrunkfrom touch of the thing; but now he pulled it from its peg, held itat arm's length for a moment, and flung it contemptuously on thefloor.
"You, at least, I am not going to fear any longer!"
As he cast it from him something crackled under his fingers. For asecond or two he stood over the tunic, eyeing it between old disgustand new surmise. Then, dropping on one knee, he fumbled it over,found the inner breast-pocket, and pulled from it a paper.
It was of many sheets, folded in a blue wrapper, sealed with a largered seal, and addressed in cipher.
Turning it over in his hand, he caught sight, in the lower left-handcorner, of a dark spot which his thumb had covered. He stared at it
;then at his thumb, to the ball of which some red dust adhered; thenat the seal. The wax bore the impress of a flying Mercury, with cap,caduceus and winged sandals. The ciphered address he could notinterpret; it was brief, written in two lines, in a bold clear hand.
This, then, was the missive which Barboux had carried.
Had Menehwehna discovered it and placed it here for him to discover?Yes, undoubtedly. And this was a French dispatch; and at any cost hemust intercept it! His soldier's sacrament required no less.He must conceal it--seek his opportunity to escape with it--go onlying meanwhile in hope of an opportunity.
Where now was the prospects of his soul's deliverance?
He crept back to bed and was thrusting the letter under his pillowwhen a slight sound drew his eyes towards the door.
In the doorway stood Menehwehna with a breakfast-tray. The Indian'seyes travelled calmly across the room as he entered and set the traydown on the bed next to John's. Without speaking he picked up thetumbled tunic from the floor and set it back on its peg.
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