Fort Amity

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

  CHAPTER XIX.

  THE LODGES IN THE SNOW.

  The fat lay six inches deep on the bear's ribs; and, being boileddown, filled six porcupine skins.

  "Said I not that Netawis would bring us good luck?" demandedMenehwehna.

  But Meshu-kwa claimed the head of her ancestress, and set it up on ascaffold within the lodge, spreading a new blanket beneath it andstrewing tobacco-leaf in front of its nose. As though poor Azoka hadnot enough misery, her mother took away her trinkets to decorate thebear, and forced her to smear her pretty, ochred face with cinders.Then for a whole day the whole family sat and fasted; and Azoka hatedfasting. But next morning she and Seeu-kwa swept out the lodge,making all tidy. Pipes were lit, and Menehwehna, after blowingtobacco-smoke into the bear's nostrils, began a long harangue on thesad necessity which lay upon men to destroy their best friends.His wife's eye being upon him, he made an excellent speech, though hedid not believe a word of it; but as a chief who had married thedaughter of a chief, he laid great stress upon her pedigree,belittling his own descent from the _canicu_, or war eagle, with theeasier politeness because he knew it to be above reproach. When hehad ended, the family, Meshu-kwa included, seated themselves and ateof the bear's flesh very heartily.

  A few days later, they struck their camp and moved inland, for thebeaver were growing scarcer, and the heavy fall of snow hid theirhouses and made it difficult to search the banks for washes.But raccoon were plentiful at their new station, and easy to hunt.Before the coming of the Cold Moon--which is January--John was set tonumber the peltries, which amounted to three hundred odd; and thescaffold, on which the dried venison hung out of reach of the wolves,was a sight to gladden the heart. Only the women grumbled whenMenehwehna gave order to strike camp, for theirs were the heaviestloads.

  Azoka did not grumble. She could count now on Ononwe to help herwith her burden, since, like a sensible girl, she had long since madeup her quarrel with him and they were to be married in the spring ontheir return to the village. She had quite forgiven Netawis.Hers was that delicious stage of love when the heart, itself sohappy, wants all the world to be happy too. Once or twice Johncaught her looking at him with eyes a little wistful in theirgladness; he never guessed that she had overheard his secret andpitied him, but dared not betray herself. Ononwe, possessed with hisnew felicity, delighted to talk of it whenever he and John huntedtogether.

  Did it hurt? Not often; and at the moment not much. But at night,when sleep would not come, when John lay staring at the chink in thedoorway beyond which the northern lights flickered, then the woundwould revive and ache with the aching silence. Once, only once, hehad started out of sleep to feel his whole body flooded withhappiness; in his dream the curtains of the lodge had parted andthrough them Diane had come to him. Standing over his head she hadshaken the snow from her cloak and from her hair, and the scatteredflakes had changed into raindrops, and the raindrops into singingbirds, and the lodge into a roof of sunlit boughs, breaking intoleaf with a scent of English hawthorn, as she stretched out her handsand knelt and he drew her to his heart. Her cheek was cold from herlong journey; but a warm breeze played beneath the boughs, and underher falling hair against his shoulder her small hand stole up andtouched his silver armlets. Nay, surely that touch was too real forany dream. . . .

  He had sprung up and pulled aside the curtain; but she was gone.His eyes searched across a waste where only the snow-wraiths danced,and far to the north the Aurora flickered with ribbons of ghostlyviolet.

  Would she come again? Yes, surely, under the stars and across thefolds and hollows of the snow, that vision would return, disturbingno huddled wild creature, waking no sleeper in the lodge; would liftthe curtain and stretch out both hands and be gathered to him.Though it came but once in a year he could watch for it by night,live for it by day.

  But by day he knew his folly. He was lost, and in forgetting lay hisonly peace. He never once accused his fortune nor railed against aGod he could not believe in. He had come to disaster through his owndoubts; himself had been the only real enemy, and that sorry selfmust be hidden and buried out of sight.

  On the whole he was burying it successfully. He liked theseOjibways, and had unlearnt his first disgust of their uncleanlyhabits, though as yet he could not imitate them. He had quiteunlearnt his old loathing of Menehwehna for the sergeant's murder.Menehwehna was a fine fellow, a chief too, respected among all thenations west of Fort Niagara. John's surprise had begun at FortRouille, where, on Menehwehna's word of credit only, the TobaccoIndians had fetched out paint and clothes to disguise him, and hadsmuggled him, asking no questions, past the fort and up through theLake aux Claies to Lake Huron. At Michilimackinac a single speechfrom Menehwehna had won his welcome from the tribe; and they werehunting now on the borders of the Ottawas through the favour ofMenehwehna's friendship with the Ottawa chief at l'Arbre Croche.John saw that the other Indians considered him fortunate inMenehwehna's favour, and if he never understood the full extent ofthe condescension, at least his respect grew for one who was at onceso kingly and so simple, who shared his people's hardships, and wastheir master less by rank than by wisdom in council, skill of hand,and native power to impress and rule.

  Of the deer especially Menehwehna was a mighty hunter; and inFebruary the wealth of the camp increased at a surprising rate.For at this season the snow becomes hard enough to bear the hunterand his dogs, but the sharp feet of the deer break through its crustand his legs are cut to the bone. Often a hunting party would kill adozen stags in two or three hours, and soon the camp reckoned up fivethousand pounds of dried venison, all of which had to be carried backseventy miles to the shore of the lake near l'Arbre Croche, where thecanoes had been left.

  Early in March the women began to prepare the bundles, and in thesecond week the return began, all starting at daybreak with as muchas they could carry, and marching until noon, when they built ascaffold, piled their loads upon it, and returned to the camp formore. When all had been carried forward one stage, the lodge itselfwas removed, and so, stage by stage, they brought their wealth downto the coast. As they neared it they fell in with other lodges ofOjibways, mostly from Michilimackinac, gathering for the returnvoyage up the lake.

  Having recovered and launched their canoes, which had lain hiddenamong the sandhills, they loaded up and coasted cheerfully homewardsby way of La Grande Traverse and l'Arbre Croche, and on the last dayof April landed under the French fort of Mackinac, which lookedacross the strait to Cap Saint-Ignace. A dozen traders were hereawaiting them; and with these Menehwehna first settled out of thecommon fund for guns, powder, and stores supplied on credit for thewinter's hunting. He then shared the residue among the camp, eachhunter receiving the portion fixed by custom; and John found himselfthe owner of one hundred and twenty beaver skins, fifty raccoon, andtwelve otter, besides fifty dubious francs in cash. The bear skin,which also fell to his share, he kept for his wedding gift to Ononwe.Twenty pounds of beaver bought a couple of new shirts; another twentya blanket; and a handsome pair of scarlet _mitases_, fashionablylaced with ribbon, cost him fifteen. Out of what remained he offeredto pay Menehwehna for his first outfit, but received answer that hehad amply discharged this debt by bringing good luck to the camp.Under Menehwehna's advice, therefore, he spent his gains in powderand ball, fishing-lines, tobacco, and a new lock for his gun.

  "And I am glad," said Menehwehna, "that you consulted me to-day, forto-night I shall drink too much rum."

  So indeed he did. That night his people--women and men--lay aroundthe fort in shameless intoxication. It pleased John to observe thatAzoka drank nothing; but on the other hand she made no attempt torestrain her lover, who, having stupefied himself with rum, droppedasleep with his head on her lap.

  John, seated and smoking his pipe by the camp fire, watched heracross its blaze. She leaned back against a pole of the lodge, herhands resting on Ononwe's head, her eyes gazing out into the purplenight beyond the doorway. They were solemn, with the awe of a
deephappiness. "And why not?" John asked himself. Her father, mother,and kinsfolk lay drunk around her; even the children had taken theirshare of the liquor. A disgusting sight, no doubt! yet somehow itdid not move him to reprobation. He had lived for six months withthis people, and they had taught him some lessons outside the craftof hunting: for example, that it takes all sorts to make a world, andthat only a fool condemns his fellows for being unlike himself.At home in Devonshire he had never understood why the bestfarm-labourers and workmen broke out at times into reckless drinking,and lay sodden for days together; or how their wives could acceptthese outbursts as a matter of course. He understood now, havingserved apprentice to hardship, how the natural man must revolt nowand again from the penalty of Adam, the grinding toil, day in and dayout, to wrest food from the earth for himself, his womenkind, andchildren. He understood, too, how noble is the discipline, thoughpardonable the revolt. He had discovered how little a man trulyneeds. He had seen in this strange life much cruelty, much crazysuperstition, much dirt and senseless discomfort; but he had madeacquaintance with love and self-denial. He had learnt, above all,the great lesson--to think twice before judging, and thrice beforecondemning.

  The camp fire was dying down untended. He arose and cast an armfulof logs upon it; and at the sound Azoka withdrew her eyes from thedoorway and fastened them upon him.

  "Netawis," said she, "when will you be leaving us?"

  "I have no thought of leaving."

  "You are not telling me the truth, now."

  "Indeed, I believe I am," John assured her.

  "But what, then, of the girl yonder, whom you wanted to marry?Has she married another man, or is she dead? Yes, I know somethingabout it," Azoka went on, as he stood staring amazedly. "For a longtime I have wanted to tell you. That night, after you had killed thebear and Ononwe took you aside--I was afraid that you two would bequarrelling, and so I crept after you--" She waited for him tounderstand.

  "I see," said John gravely.

  "Tell me what has become of her."

  "I suppose that she is living still with her own people; and there isnothing more to tell, Azoka, except that she cannot be mine, andwould not if she could."

  "Whose fault was it, Netawis? Yours or hers?"

  "There was much fault indeed, and all of it mine; but against mymarrying her it did not count, for that was impossible from thebeginning. Suppose, now, your nation were at war with the Ottawas,and a young Ottawa brave fell in love with you. What would you do?"

  "That is idle talk, for of course I should do nothing," said Azokacomposedly. "But if I were a man and fell in love with an Ottawamaiden, it would be simple. I should carry her off."

  John, being unable to find an answer to this, lit his pipe and satstaring into the fire.

  "Was she an Englishwoman then?" Azoka asked after a while.

  "An Englishwoman?" He looked up in surprise; then, with a glancearound at the sleepers, he leaned forward until his eyes met thegirl's at close range across the flame. "Since you have learnt onesecret, Azoka, I will tell you another. She was a Frenchwoman, andit is I who am English."

  But Azoka kept her composure. "My father is always wise," she saidquietly. "If he had told the truth, you would have been in greatdanger; for many had lost sons and brothers in the fighting, andthose who came back were full of revenge. You heard their talk."

  "Then you have only to tell them, Azoka, and they may take theirrevenge. I shall not greatly care."

  "I am no babbler, Netawis; and, moreover, the men have put theirrevenge away. When the summer comes very few will want to gofighting. For my part I pay little heed to their talk of killing andscalping; to me it is all boys' play, and I do not want to understandit. But from what I hear they think that the Englishmen will bevictorious, and it is foolishness to fight on the losing side.If so--" Azoka broke off and pressed her palms together in suddendelight.

  "If so?" echoed John.

  "If the English win, why then you may carry off your Frenchwoman,Netawis! I do very much want you to be happy."

  "And I thank you a thousand times, Azoka, for your good wishes; but Ifear it will not happen in that way."

  She smoothed the head of Ononwe in her lap. "Oh yes, it will," sheassured him. "My father told me that you would be leaving us, someday; and now I know what he meant. He has seen her, has he not?"

  "He has seen her."

  "My father is never mistaken. You will go back when the time comes,and take her captive. But bring her back that I may see her,Netawis."

  "But if she should resist?"

  Azoka shook her pretty head. "You men never understand us. She willnot resist when once you have married her; and I do very much wantyou to be happy."

  For three days the Ojibways sprawled in drunkenness around FortMackinac, but on the fourth arose and departed for their island; verysullenly at first, as they launched their canoes, but with risingspirits as they neared home. And two days after their arrival Ononweand Azoka were married.

  In the midst of the marriage feast, which lasted a week, the greatthaw began; and thereafter for a month Menehwehna watched Johnclosely. But the springtime could not thaw the resolve which hadbeen hardening John's heart all the winter--to live out his life inthe wilderness and, when his time came, to die there a forgotten man.He wondered now that he had ever besought Menehwehna for help toreturn. Although it could never be proved against him, he mustacknowledge to himself that he, a British officer, was now in truth awilling deserter. But to be a deserter he found more tolerable thanto return at the price of private shame.

  Menehwehna, cheated of his fears, watched him with a new and growinghope. The snows melted; May came with its flowers, June with itsheat, July with the roaring of bucks in the forest; and still the menhung about the village, fishing and shooting, or making shortexcursions to Sault Sainte-Marie or the bay of Boutchitouay, or themouth of the Mississaki river on the north side of the lake (wherethe wildfowl were plentiful), but showing no disposition to go outagain upon the war-path as they had gone the year before. The frenzywhich then had carried them hundreds of miles from their homes seemednow to be entirely spent, and the war itself to have faded far away.Once or twice a French officer from Fort Mackinac was paddled acrossand landed and harangued the Indians; and the Indians listenedattentively, but never stirred. Of the French soldiers drilling atthe fort they spoke now with contempt.

  John saw no reason for this change, and set it down to thatflightiness of purpose which--as he had read in books--is common toall savages. He had yet to learn that in solitary lands the very skybecomes as it were a vast sounding-board, and rumour travels, no manknows how.

  It was on his return from the isles aux Castors, where with two scoreyoung men of his tribe he had spent three weeks in fishing forsturgeon, that he heard of the capture of Fort Niagara by theEnglish. Azoka announced it to him.

  "Said I not how it would happen?" she reminded him. "But if youleave us now, you must come back with her and see my boy. When hecomes to be born he shall be called Netawis. Ononwe and I are agreedon it."

  "I have no thought of leaving," John answered. "Fort Niagara is farfrom here."

  "They say also," Menehwehna announced later, "that Stadacona hasfallen."

  "Stadacona?"

  "The great fortress--Quebec."

  John mused for a while. "I had a dear friend once," he said, "and helaid me a wager that he would enter Quebec before me. It appearsthat he has won."

  "A friend, did my brother say?"

  "And a kinsman," John answered, recognising the old note of jealousyin Menehwehna's voice. "But there's no likeness between us; for heis one that always goes straight to his mark."

  "There was a name brought me with the news. Your chief was the Wolf,they said; but whether it be his own name or that of his _manitou_,I know not."