De Catinat was indeed weary to the last pitch of human endurance. Amos Green and the seaman had already wrapped themselves in their blankets and sunk to sleep under the shelter of the stockade. The soldier rushed upstairs to say a few words of comfort to the trembling Adele, and then throwing himself down upon a couch he slept the dreamless sleep of an exhausted man. When at last he was roused by a fresh sputter of musketry fire from the woods the sun was already low in the heavens, and the mellow light of evening tinged the bare walls of the room. He sprang from his couch, seized his musket, and rushed downstairs. The defenders were gathered at their loop-holes once more, while Du Lhut, the seigneur, and Amos Green were whispering eagerly together. He noticed as he passed that Onega still sat crooning by the body of her son, without having changed her position since morning.
“What is it, then? Are they coming on?” he asked.
“They are up to some devilry,” said Du Lhut, peering out at the corner of the embrasure. “They are gathering thickly at the east fringe, and yet the firing comes from the south. It is not the Indian way to attack across the open, and yet if they think help is coming from the fort they might venture it.”
“The wood in front of us is alive with them,” said Amos. “They are as busy as beavers among the underwood.”
“Perhaps they are going to attack from this side, and cover the attack by a fire from the flank.”
“That is what I think,” cried the seigneur. “Bring the spare guns up here and all the men except five for each side.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a shrill yell burst from the wood, and in an instant a cloud of warriors dashed out and charged across the open, howling, springing, and waving their guns or tomahawks in the air. With their painted faces, smeared and striped with every vivid colour, their streaming scalp-locks, their waving arms, their open mouths, and their writhings and contortions, no more fiendish crew ever burst into a sleeper’s nightmare. Some of those in front bore canoes between them, and as they reached the stockade they planted them against it and swarmed up them as if they had been scaling-ladders. Others fired through the embrasures and loop-holes, the muzzles of their muskets touching those of the defenders, while others again sprang unaided on to the tops of the palisades and jumped fearlessly down upon the inner side. The Canadians, however, made such a resistance as might be expected from men who knew that no mercy awaited them. They fired whilst they had time to load, and then, clubbing their muskets, they smashed furiously at every red head which showed above the rails. The din within the stockade was infernal, the shouts and cries of the French, the whooping of the savages, and the terrified screaming of the frightened women blending into one dreadful uproar, above which could be heard the high shrill voice of the old seigneur imploring his censitaires to stand fast. With his rapier in his hand, his hat lost, his wig awry, and his dignity all thrown to the winds, the old nobleman showed them that day how a soldier of Rocroy could carry himself, and with Du Lhut, Amos, De Catinat and Ephraim Savage, was ever in the forefront of the defence. So desperately did they fight, the sword and musket-butt outreaching the tomahawk, that though at one time fifty Iroquois were over the palisades, they had slain or driven back nearly all of them when a fresh wave burst suddenly over the south face which had been stripped of its defenders. Du Lhut saw in an instant that the enclosure was lost and that only one thing could save the house.
“Hold them for an instant,” he screamed, and rushing at the brass gun he struck his flint and steel and fired it straight into the thick of the savages. Then as they recoiled for an instant he stuck a nail into the touch-hole and drove it home with a blow from the butt of his gun. Darting across the yard he spiked the gun at the other corner, and was back at the door as the remnants of the garrison were hurled towards it by the rush of the assailants. The Canadians darted in, and swung the ponderous mass of wood into position, breaking the leg of the foremost warrior who had striven to follow them. Then for an instant they had time for breathing and for council.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE COMING OF THE FRIAR.
But their case was a very evil one. Had the guns been lost so that they might be turned upon the door, all further resistance would have been vain, but Du Lhut’s presence of mind had saved them from that danger. The two guns upon the river face and the canoes were safe, for they were commanded by the windows of the house. But their numbers were terribly reduced, and those who were left were weary and wounded and spent. Nineteen had gained the house, but one had been shot through the body and lay groaning in the hall, while a second had his shoulder cleft by a tomahawk and could no longer raise his musket. Du Lhut, De la Noue, and De Catinat were uninjured, but Ephraim Savage had a bullet-hole in his forearm, and Amos was bleeding from a cut upon the face. Of the others hardly one was without injury, and yet they had no time to think of their hurts for the danger still pressed and they were lost unless they acted. A few shots from the barricaded windows sufficed to clear the enclosure, for it was all exposed to their aim; but on the other hand they had the shelter of the stockade now, and from the further side of it they kept up a fierce fire upon the windows. Half-a-dozen of the censitaires returned the fusillade, while the leaders consulted as to what had best be done.
“We have twenty-five women and fourteen children,” said the seigneur. “I am sure that you will agree with me, gentlemen, that our first duty is towards them. Some of you, like myself, have lost sons or brothers this day. Let us at least save our wives and sisters.”
“No Iroquois canoes have passed up the river,” said one of the Canadians. “If the women start in the darkness they can get away to the fort.”
“By Saint Anne of Beaupre,” exclaimed Du Lhut, “I think it would be well if you could get your men out of this also, for I cannot see how it is to be held until morning.”
A murmur of assent broke from the other Canadians, but the old nobleman shook his bewigged head with decision.
“Tut! Tut! What nonsense is this!” he cried. “Are we to abandon the manor-house of Sainte Marie to the first gang of savages who choose to make an attack upon it? No, no, gentlemen, there are still nearly a score of us, and when the garrison learn that we are so pressed, which will be by to-morrow morning at the latest, they will certainly send us relief.”
Du Lhut shook his head moodily.
“If you stand by the fort I will not desert you,” said he, “and yet it is a pity to sacrifice brave men for nothing.”
“The canoes will hardly hold the women and children as it is,” cried Theuriet. “There are but two large and four small. There is not space for a single man.”
“Then that decides it,” said De Catinat. “But who are to row the women?”
“It is but a few leagues with the current in their favour, and there are none of our women who do not know how to handle a paddle.”
The Iroquois were very quiet now, and an occasional dropping shot from the trees or the stockade was the only sign of their presence. Their losses had been heavy, and they were either engaged in collecting their dead, or in holding a council as to their next move. The twilight was gathering in, and the sun had already sunk beneath the tree-tops. Leaving a watchman at each window, the leaders went round to the back of the house where the canoes were lying upon the bank. There were no signs of the enemy upon the river to the north of them.
“We are in luck,” said Amos. “The clouds are gathering and there will be little light.”
“It is luck indeed, since the moon is only three days past the full,” answered Du Lhut. “I wonder that the Iroquois have not cut us off upon the water, but it is likely that their canoes have gone south to bring up another war-party. They may be back soon, and we had best not lose a moment.”
“In an hour it might be dark enough to start.”
“I think that there is rain in those clouds, and that will make it darker still.”
The women and children were assembled and their places in each boat were assigned to t
hem. The wives of the censitaires, rough hardy women whose lives had been spent under the shadow of a constant danger, were for the most part quiet and collected, though a few of the younger ones whimpered a little. A woman is always braver when she has a child to draw her thoughts from herself, and each married woman had one now allotted to her as her own special charge until they should reach the fort. To Onega, the Indian wife of the seigneur, who was as wary and as experienced as a war sachem of her people, the command of the women was entrusted.
“It is not very far, Adele,” said De Catinat, as his wife clung to his arm. “You remember how we heard the Angelus bells as we journeyed through the woods. That was Fort St. Louis, and it is but a league or two.”
“But I do not wish to leave you, Amory. We have been together in all our troubles. Oh, Amory, why should we be divided now?”
“My dear love, you will tell them at the fort how things are with us, and they will bring us help.”
“Let the others do that, and I will stay. I will not be useless, Amory. Onega has taught me to load a gun. I will not be afraid, indeed I will not, if you will only let me stay.”
“You must not ask it, Adele. It is impossible, child I could not let you stay.”
“But I feel so sure that it would be best.”
The coarser reason of man has not yet learned to value those subtle instincts which guide a woman. De Catinat argued and exhorted until he had silenced if he had not convinced her.
“It is for my sake, dear. You do not know what a load it will be from my heart when I know that you are safe. And you need not be afraid for me. We can easily hold the place until morning. Then the people from the fort will come, for I hear that they have plenty of canoes, and we shall all meet again.”
Adele was silent, but her hands tightened upon his arm. Her husband was still endeavouring to reassure her when a groan burst from the watcher at the window which overlooked the stream.
“There is a canoe on the river to the north of us,” he cried.
The besieged looked at each other in dismay. The Iroquois had then cut off their retreat after all.
“How many warriors are in it?” asked the seigneur.
“I cannot see. The light is not very good, and it is in the shadow of the bank.”
“Which way is it coming?”
“It is coming this way. Ah, it shoots out into the open now, and I can see it. May the good Lord be praised! A dozen candles shall burn in Quebec Cathedral if I live till next summer!”
“What is it then?” cried De la Noue impatiently.
“It is not an Iroquois canoe. There is but one man in it. He is a
Canadian.”
“A Canadian!” cried Du Lhut, springing up to the window. “Who but a madman would venture into such a hornet’s nest alone! Ah, yes, I can see him now. He keeps well out from the bank to avoid their fire. Now he is in mid-stream and he turns towards us. By my faith, it is not the first time that the good father has handled a paddle.”
“It is a Jesuit!” said one, craning his neck. “They are ever where there is most danger.”
“No, I can see his capote,” cried another. “It is a Franciscan friar!”
An instant later there was the sound of a canoe grounding upon the pebbles, the door was unbarred, and a man strode in, attired in the long brown gown of the Franciscans. He cast a rapid glance around, and then, stepping up to De Catinat, laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“So, you have not escaped me!” said he. “We have caught the evil seed before it has had time to root.”
“What do you mean, father?” asked the seigneur. “You have made some mistake. This is my good friend Amory de Catinat, of a noble French family.”
“This is Amory de Catinat, the heretic and Huguenot,” cried the monk.
“I have followed him up the St. Lawrence, and I have followed him up the
Richelieu, and I would have followed him to the world’s end if I could
but bring him back with me.”
“Tut, father, your zeal carries you too far,” said the seigneur.
“Whither would you take my friend, then?”
“He shall go back to France with his wife. There is no place in Canada for heretics.”
Du Lhut burst out laughing. “By Saint Anne, father,” said he, “if you could take us all back to France at present we should be very much your debtors.”
“And you will remember,” said De la Noue sternly, “that you are under my roof and that you are speaking of my guest.”
But the friar was not to be abashed by the frown of the old nobleman.
“Look at this,” said he, whipping a paper out of his bosom. “It is signed by the governor, and calls upon you, under pain of the king’s displeasure, to return this man to Quebec. Ah, monsieur, when you left me upon the island that morning you little thought that I would return to Quebec for this, and then hunt you down so many hundreds of miles of river. But I have you now, and I shall never leave you until I see you on board the ship which will carry you and your wife back to France.”
For all the bitter vindictiveness which gleamed in the monk’s eyes, De
Catinat could not but admire the energy and tenacity of the man.
“It seems to me, father, that you would have shone more as a soldier than as a follower of Christ,” said he; “but, since you have followed us here, and since there is no getting away, we may settle this question at some later time.”
But the two Americans were less inclined to take so peaceful a view. Ephraim Savage’s beard bristled with anger, and he whispered something into Amos Green’s ear.
“The captain and I could easily get rid of him,” said the young woodsman, drawing De Catinat aside. “If he will cross our path he must pay for it.”
“No, no, not for the world, Amos! Let him alone. He does what he thinks to be his duty, though his faith is stronger than his charity, I think. But here comes the rain, and surely it is dark enough now for the boats.”
A great brown cloud had overspread the heavens, and the night had fallen so rapidly that they could hardly see the gleam of the river in front of them. The savages in the woods and behind the captured stockade were quiet, save for an occasional shot, but the yells and whoops from the cottages of the censitaires showed that they were being plundered by their captors. Suddenly a dull red glow began to show above one of the roofs.
“They have set it on fire,” cried Du Lhut. “The canoes must go at once, for the river will soon be as light as day. In! In! There is not an instant to lose!”
There was no time for leave-taking. One impassioned kiss and Adele was torn away and thrust into the smallest canoe, which she shared with Onega, two children, and an unmarried girl. The others rushed into their places, and in a few moments they had pushed off, and had vanished into the drift and the darkness. The great cloud had broken and the rain pattered heavily upon the roof, and splashed upon their faces as they strained their eyes after the vanishing boats.
“Thank God for this storm!” murmured Du Lhut. “It will prevent the cottages from blazing up too quickly.”
But he had forgotten that though the roofs might be wet the interior was as dry as tinder. He had hardly spoken before a great yellow tongue of flame licked out of one of the windows, and again and again, until suddenly half of the roof fell in, and the cottage was blazing like a pitch-bucket. The flames hissed and sputtered in the pouring rain, but, fed from below, they grew still higher and fiercer, flashing redly upon the great trees, and turning their trunks to burnished brass. Their light made the enclosure and the manor-house as clear as day, and exposed the whole long stretch of the river. A fearful yell from the woods announced that the savages had seen the canoes, which were plainly visible from the windows not more than a quarter of a mile away.
“They are rushing through the woods. They are making for the water’s edge,” cried De Catinat.
“They have some canoes down there,” said Du Lhut.
“But they
must pass us!” cried the Seigneur of Sainte Marie. “Get down to the cannon and see if you cannot stop them.”
They had hardly reached the guns when two large canoes filled with warriors shot out from among the reeds below the fort, and steering out into mid-stream began to paddle furiously after the fugitives.
“Jean, you are our best shot,” cried De la Noue. “Lay for her as she passes the great pine tree. Lambert, do you take the other gun. The lives of all whom you love may hang upon the shot!”
The two wrinkled old artillerymen glanced along their guns and waited for the canoes to come abreast of them. The fire still blazed higher and higher, and the broad river lay like a sheet of dull metal with two dark lines, which marked the canoes, sweeping swiftly down the centre. One was fifty yards in front of the other, but in each the Indians were bending to their paddles and pulling frantically, while their comrades from the wooded shores whooped them on to fresh exertions. The fugitives had already disappeared round the bend of the river.
As the first canoe came abreast of the lower of the two guns, the Canadian made the sign of the cross over the touch-hole and fired. A cheer and then a groan went up from the eager watchers. The discharge had struck the surface close to the mark, and dashed such a shower of water over it that for an instant it looked as if it had been sunk. The next moment, however, the splash subsided, and the canoe shot away uninjured, save that one of the rowers had dropped his paddle while his head fell forward upon the back of the man in front of him. The second gunner sighted the same canoe as it came abreast of him, but at the very instant when he stretched out his match to fire a bullet came humming from the stockade and he fell forward dead without a groan.
“This is work that I know something of, lad,” said old Ephraim, springing suddenly forward. “But when I fire a gun I like to train it myself. Give me a help with the handspike and get her straight for the island. So! A little lower for an even keel! Now we have them!” He clapped down his match and fired.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 396