Menard did not go at once to see Major Provost, the Commandant. He had already handed in his report at the citadel. It was probable that this was some new work for him. He had just settled his mind to the prospect of a rest, the first since that mad holiday, seven years before, when word had come that his lieutenant’s commission was on the way. That was at Three Rivers. He wanted to idle, to waste a few weeks for the sheer delight of extravagance, but his blood did not flow more quickly at the wish. He was an older man by a score of years––or was it only seven?

He lingered on the square. The black-eyed children, mostly dirty and ragged (for the maids whom the King had sent over by shiploads to his colonists had not developed into the most diligent and neat housewives) tumbled about his feet. He allowed himself to be drawn into 20 their play. They had no awe of his uniform, for it was worn and frayed. He had not yet taken the trouble to get out his fresher coat and breeches and boots. He thought of this, and was again amused. It was another sign of age. The time had been when his first care after arriving in Quebec was to don his rich house uniform and polished scabbard, and step gaily to the Major’s house to sun himself in the welcome of the Major’s pretty wife, who had known his uncle, the Sieur de Vauban, at La Rochelle. Now he was back in Quebec from months on the frontier, he was summoned to the Major’s house, and yet he stayed and laughed at the children. For the Major’s wife was older, too, and the vivacity of her youth was thinning out and uncovering the needle-like tongue beneath. A slim little urchin was squirming between his boots, with a pursuing rabble close behind, and the Captain had to take hold of a young tree to keep his feet. He turned and started in pursuit of the children, but caught sight of two Ursuline sisters entering the square, and straightened himself. After all, a captain is a captain, even though the intoxication of spring be in him, and his heart struggling to clamber back into the land of youth. He walked on 21 across the square and down the street to the Major’s house.

Major Provost welcomed Menard heartily, and led him to his office. “We’ll have our business first,” he said, “and get it done with.”

Menard settled back in the carved oak chair which had for generations been a member of the Major’s family. The light mood had left him. Now he was the soldier, brusque in manner, with lines about his mouth which, to certain men, gave his face a hard expression.

“First let me ask you, Menard, what are your plans?”

“For the present?”

“Yes.”

“I have none.”

“Your personal affairs, I mean. Have you any matters to hold your attention here for the next few weeks?”

“None.”

Major Provost fingered his quill.

“I don’t know, of course, how your own feelings stand, Menard. You’ve been worked hard for three years, and I suppose you want rest. But somebody must go to Fort Frontenac, and the Governor thinks you are the man.” 22

Menard made a gesture of impatience.

“There are a dozen men here with little to do.”

“I know it. But this matter is of some importance, and it may call for delicate work before you are through with it. It isn’t much in itself,––merely to bear orders to d’Orvilliers,––but the Governor thinks that the right man may be able to do strong work before the campaign opens. You probably know that we are to move against the Senecas alone, and that we must treat with the other nations to keep them from aiding the Senecas. No one can say just how this can be done. Even Father de Lamberville has come back, you know, from the Mohawks; but the Governor thinks that if we send a good man, he may be able to see a way, once he gets on the ground, and can advise with d’Orvilliers. Now, you are a good man, Menard; and you can influence the Indians if anyone can.”

“You are a little vague, Major.”

“You will go to Frontenac in advance of the army to prepare the way. La Durantaye and Du Luth are already at Detroit, awaiting orders, with close to two hundred Frenchmen and four hundred Indians. And Tonty should 23 have joined them before now with several hundred Illinois.”

“I don’t believe he’ll bring many Illinois. They must have known of the Iroquois war party that started toward their villages. They will stay to defend their own country. They may not know that the Iroquois party was recalled.”

“Recalled?” said the Major.

“Yes. Father de Casson has the news from Father de Lamberville. You see what that means. The Iroquois have been warned.”

“I was afraid of it. These new governors, Menard––each has to learn his lesson from the beginning of the book. Why will they not take counsel from the men who know the Indians? This campaign has been heralded as broadly as a trading fair.”

“When should I start?” asked Menard, abruptly.

“At once––within a few days.” Major Provost looked at the other’s set face. “I am sorry about this, Menard. But you understand, I am sure. Perhaps I had better give you an idea of our plans. You know, of course, that we have three ships fitting out at Frontenac. Already our force is being got together at St. 24 Helen’s Island, by Montreal. Champigny is engaging canoemen and working out a transport and supply system between Montreal and Frontenac. The force will proceed to Frontenac, and embark from there in the ships, bateaux, and canoes.”

“Is the rendezvous at Niagara?”

“No, at La Famine, on the southern shore of Lake Ontario.”

Menard nodded. He knew the place; for by nearly starving there, years before, with the others of Governor la Barre’s ill-starred expedition, he had contributed to giving the spot a name.

“La Durantaye and Du Luth, with Tonty, are to meet us there. You will instruct them to move on to Niagara, and there await further orders. We shall sail around the east end of the lake and along the south shore.”

“The Iroquois will follow your movements.”

“We intend that they shall. They will not know where our final landing place will be, and will have to keep their forces well in hand. And it will prevent them from uniting to attack Niagara.”

“What then?”

“We will leave a strong guard at La Famine 25 with the stores, and strike inland for the Seneca villages.”

“And now what part am I to play in this?”

Major Provost leaned back in his chair.

“You, Menard, are to represent the Governor. You will move in advance of the troops. At Frontenac it will be your duty to see first that the way is clear to getting the two divisions to the meeting place at La Famine, and to see that d’Orvilliers has the fort ready for the troops, with extra cabins and stockades. Then the Governor wishes you and d’Orvilliers to go over all the information the scouts bring in. If you can decide upon any course which will hold back the other tribes from aiding the Senecas, act upon it at once, without orders. In other words, you have full liberty to follow your judgment. That ought to be responsibility enough.”

Menard stretched his arms. “All right, Major. But when my day comes to taste the delights of Quebec, I hope I may not be too old to enjoy it.”

“The Governor honours you, Menard, with this undertaking.”

“He honoured De SÉvignÉ with a majority and turned him loose in Quebec.”

“Too bad, Menard, too bad,” the Major 26 laughed. “Now I, who ask nothing better than a brisk campaign, must rot here in Quebec until I die.”

“Are you not to go?”

“No. I am to stay behind and brighten my lonely moments drilling the rabble of a home guard. Do you think you will need an escort?”

“No; the river from here to Frontenac is in use every day. I shall want canoemen. Two will be enough.”

“Very well. Let me know what supplies you need. You mistake, man, in grumbling at the work. You are building up a reputation that never could live at short range. Stay away long enough and you will be a more popular man than the Governor. I envy you, on my honour, I do.”

“One thing more, Major. This galley affair; what do you think of it?”

“You mean the capture at Frontenac? You should know better than I, Menard. You brought the prisoners down.”

“There is no doubt in my mind, Major, nor in d’Orvilliers’s! We obeyed orders.” Menard looked up expressively. “You know the Iroquois. You know how they will take it. The worst fault was La Grange’s. He captured the 27 party––and it was not a war party––by deliberate treachery. D’Orvilliers had intrusted to him the Governor’s orders that Indians must be got for the King’s galleys. As you know, d’Orvilliers and I both protested. I did not bring them here until the Governor commanded it.”

“Well, we can’t help that now, Menard.”

“That is not the question. You ask me to keep the Onondagas out of this fight, after we have taken a hundred of their warriors in this way.”

“I know it, Menard; I know it. But the Governor’s orders––Well, I have nothing to say. You can only do your best.”

They went to the reception room, where Madame de Provost awaited them. Menard was made to stay and dine, in order that Madame could draw from him a long account of his latest adventures on the frontier. Madame de Provost, though she had lived a dozen years in the province, had never been farther from Quebec than the Seignory of the Marquis de St. Denis, half a dozen leagues below the city. The stories that came to her ears of massacres and battles, of settlers butchered in the fields, and of the dashing adventures of La Salle and Du Luth, were to her no more than wild tales 28 from a far-away land. So she chattered through the long dinner; and for the first time since he had reached the city, Menard wished himself back on Lake Ontario, where there were no women.

Menard returned to the citadel early in the evening. Lieutenant Danton was drawing plans for a redoubt, but he leaned back as Menard entered.

“I began to think you were not coming back, Captain,” he said. “I’m told the Major says that you are the only man in New France who could have got that trading agreement from the Onondagas last year. How did you do it?”

“How does a man usually do what he is told to do?” Menard sat on a corner of the long table and looked lazily at the boy.

“That wasn’t the kind of treaty our Governors make; you know it wasn’t.”

“You were not here under Frontenac.”

“No. I wish I had been. He must have been a great orator. My father has told me about the long council at Montreal. He said that Frontenac out-talked the greatest of the Mohawk orators. Did you learn it from him?”

“My boy, when you are through with your pretty pictures,” Menard motioned toward the 29 plans, “and have got out into the real work; when you’ve spent months in Iroquois lodges; when you’ve been burned and shot and starved,––then it will be a pity if you haven’t learned to be a soldier. What is this little thing you are drawing?”

Danton flushed. “You may laugh at the engineers,” he said, “but where would King Louis be now if––”

“Tut, my boy, tut!”

“That is very well––”

Menard laughed. “How old are you, Danton?” he asked.

“Twenty-two.”

“Very good. You have got on well. I dare say you’ve learned a deal out of your books. Now we have you out here in the provinces, where the hard work is done. Well send you back in a few years a real man. And then you’ll step smartly among the pretty officers of the King, and when one speaks of New France you’ll lift your brows and say: ‘New France? Ah, yes. That is in America. I was there once. Rather a primitive life––no court, no army.’ Ah, ha, my boy––no, never mind. Come up to my quarters and have a sip of real old Burgundy.” 30

“Are you ever serious, Menard?” asked Danton, sitting on the Captain’s cot and smacking his lips over the liquor.

Menard smiled. “I’m afraid I shall have to play at composure for an hour,” he said. “I must see Father Claude. Settle yourself here, if you like.”

Menard hurried away, for it was growing late. He found the Jesuit meditating in his cell.

“Ah, Captain Menard, I am glad to see you so soon again.”

Menard sat on the narrow bed and stretched out his legs as far as he could in the cramped space.

“How soon will your duties be over here, Father?”

“There seems to be no reason for me to stay. I have delivered the relations, and no further work has come to hand.”

“Then it may be that you can help me, Father.”

“You know, my son, that I will.”

“Very well. I have been ordered to Fort Frontenac in advance of the troops. I am to bear orders to d’Orvilliers and to Du Luth and La Durantaye. It is possible that there may be some delicate work to be done among the 31 Indians. You know the Iroquois, Father, and our two heads together should be stronger than mine alone. I want you to go with me.”

The priest’s eyes lighted.

“It may be that I can get permission at Montreal.”

“You will go, then?”

“Gladly. It is to be no one else––we two––”

“We shall have canoemen. To my mind, the fewer the better.”

“Still, Captain, you cannot depend on the canoemen. Would it not be well to have one other man? You might need a messenger.”

Menard thought for a moment.

“True, Father. And if I am to have a man, he had best be an officer; yes, a man who could execute orders. I’ll take Danton. You will be ready for a start, Father, probably to-morrow?”

“At any time, my son.”

“Good night.”

There was little work to be done in preparing for the journey (Major Provost would attend to the supplies and to engaging the canoemen), and Menard still was in the lazy mood. He stood for a while at the edge of the cliff and 32 looked down at the wharf. It was dark, and he could not see whether the body of the Indian had been removed. The incident of the afternoon had been gathering importance to his mind the longer he thought of it. Five years earlier Menard had been captured by the Onondagas during a fight near Fort Frontenac. They had taken him to one of their villages, south of Lake Ontario, and for days had tortured him and starved him. They had drawn out cords from his arms and legs and thrust sticks between them and the flesh. His back was still covered with scars from the burning slivers which they had stuck through the skin. They had torn the nails from his left hand with their teeth. Then Otreouati, the Big Throat, the chief who had led his followers to believe in Frontenac, came back from a parley with another tribe, and taking a liking to the tall young soldier who bore the torture without flinching, he adopted him into his own family. Menard had lived with the Indians, a captive only in name, and had earned the name of the Big Buffalo by his skill in the hunt. At last, when they had released him, it was under a compact of friendship, that had never since been broken. It had stood many tests. Even during 33 open campaigns they had singled him out from the other Frenchmen as their brother. He wondered whether they knew of his part in stocking the King’s galleys. Probably they did.

It was late when Menard took a last sweeping look at the river and walked up to the citadel. His day of idleness was over. After all, it had not been altogether a wasted day. But it was the longest holiday he was likely to have for months to come. Having made up his mind to accept the facts, he stretched out on his bed and went to sleep.

Danton took the news that he was to be a member of the party with enthusiasm. Menard had hardly finished telling him when he swept the tiresome plans and specifications into a heap at the end of the table, and rushed out to get a musket (for a sword would have no place in the work before them). The start was to be made at noon, but Danton was on the ground so early as almost to lower his dignity in the eyes of the bronzed canoemen. He wore his bravest uniform, with polished belt and buttons and new lace at the neck. His broad hat had a long curling feather. He wore the new musket slung rakishly over his shoulder. 34

About the middle of the forenoon, as Menard was looking over his orders, memorizing them in case of accident to the papers, he was found by Major Provost’s orderly, who said that the Commandant wished to see him at once.

The Major was busy with the engineers in another room, but he left them.

“Menard,” he said abruptly, “I’ve got to ask you to do me a favour. If I could see any way out of it––”

“I will do anything I can.”

“Thank you. I suppose you know the Marquis de St. Denis?”

“Slightly.”

“Well, I shan’t take time to give you the whole story. St. Denis has the seignory six leagues to the east. You may know that he went into debt to invest in La Salle’s colonizing scheme in Louisiana. St. Denis was in France at the time, and had great faith in La Salle. Of course, now that La Salle has not been heard from, and the debts are all past due without even a rumour of success to make them good––you can imagine the rest. The seignory has been seized. St. Denis has nothing.” 35

“Has he a family?” asked Menard.

“A daughter. His wife is dead. He came here after you left last night, and again this morning. We are old friends, and I have been trying to help him. He is going to sail to-day on Le Fourgon for Paris to see what he can save from the wreck. My house is crowded with the officers who are here planning the campaign; but St. Denis has a cousin living at Frontenac, Captain la Grange, and we’ve got to get Valerie there somehow. Do you think it will be safe?”

“It’s a hard trip, you know; but it’s safe enough.”

“I shan’t forget your kindness, Menard. The girl is a spirited little thing, and she takes it hard. Madame has set her heart on getting her to La Grange. I don’t know all the details myself.”

“I think we can arrange it, Major. We start in an hour.”

“She will be there. You are a splendid fellow, Menard. Good-bye.”

Menard’s face was less amiable once he was away from the house. He knew from experience the disagreeable task that lay before him. But there was nothing to be said, so he went 36 to his quarters and took a last look at the orders. Then taking off his coat and his rough shirt, he placed the papers carefully in a buckskin bag, which he hung about his neck.

Everything was ready at the wharf. The long canoe lay waiting, a voyageur at each end. The bales were stowed carefully in the centre. Father de Casson met Menard at the upper end of the dock. He had come down by way of the winding road, for his bundle was heavy, and he knew no way but to carry it himself. Menard good-naturedly gave him a hand as they crossed the dock. When they had set it down, and Menard straightened up, his eyes twinkled, for young Danton, in his finery, was nervously walking back and forth at the edge of the dock, looking fixedly into the canoe, apparently inspecting the bales. His shoulders were unused to the musket, and by a quick turn he had brought the muzzle under the rim of his hat, setting it on the side of his head. His face was red.

Sitting on a bundle, a rod away, was a girl, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, wearing a simple travelling dress. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and she gazed steadily out over the water with an air that would have been haughty save for the slight upward tip of her nose.

“Sitting on a bundle was, a girl, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old.”