Samuel Merwin - The Road to Frontenac

Teganouan returned the smile, and bowed.

“My brother has told the white man of our errand?”

“Yes,” said Menard, “they have been sent to Three Rivers by the Superior, and are now returning. I have told them that we, too, are going to Montreal.”

The priest took the hint. “We shall meet you and your brothers again, Teganouan. They are newcomers at the Mission, I believe. They had not come when I left.”

“No, Father. They have but last week become Christians. The Long Arrow” (inclining his head toward the large Indian) “has lost a son, and through his suffering was led to take the faith.”

The Long Arrow, who had seemed to lose interest in the conversation as soon as he had finished speaking, here rose.

“My brothers and the good Father will give us their blessing? The end of the journey is yet three days away. I had hoped that we might be permitted to accept the protection of the son of Onontio,”–he looked at Menard,–“but I see that his canoe will not be ready for the journey before the sun is high.” He looked gravely from Menard to the priest, then walked to the shore, followed by the others. They pushed off, and shortly disappeared around the point of land.

Menard gave them no attention, but as soon as they were gone from sight, he turned to the priest.

“Well, Father, what do you make of that?”

Father Claude shook his head.

“Nothing, as yet, M’sieu. Do you know who the large man is?”

“No; but I seem to remember him. And what is more to the point, he certainly remembers me.”

“Are you sure?”

“He recognized me on the river. He came back with me so willingly because he wanted to know more about us. That was plain. It would be well, Father, to enquire at the Mission. We should know more of them and their errand at Three Rivers.”

Menard called Danton, and walked with him a little way into the wood.

“Danton,” he said, “you are going through this journey with us, and I intend that you shall know about such matters as this meeting with the Onondagas.”

“Oh, they were Onondagas?”

“Yes. They claim to be Mission Indians, but neither the Father nor I altogether believe them.” In a few sentences Menard outlined the conversation. “Now, Danton, this may or may not be an important incident. I want you to know the necessity for keeping our own counsel in all such matters, dropping no careless words, and letting no emotions show. I wish you would make a point of learning the Iroquois language. Father Claude will help you. You are to act as my right-hand man, and you may as well begin now to learn to draw your own conclusions from an Indian’s words.”

Danton took eagerly to the lessons with Father Claude, for they seemed another definite step toward the excitement that surely, to his mind, lay in wait ahead. The studying began on that afternoon, while they were toiling up against the stream.

In the evening, when the dusk was coming down, and the little camp was ready for the night, Menard came up from the heap of stores, where the voyageurs had already stretched out, and found the maid sitting alone by the fire. Danton, in his rush of interest in the new study, had drawn Father Claude aside for another lesson.

“Mademoiselle is lonely?” asked Menard, sitting beside her.

“No, no, M’sieu. I have too many thoughts for that.”

“What interesting thoughts they must be.”

“They are, M’sieu. They are all about the Indians this morning. Tell me, M’sieu,–they called you Onontio. What does it mean?”

“They called me the son of Onontio, because of my uniform. Onontio, the Great Mountain, is their name for the Governor; and the Governor’s soldiers are to them his sons.”

“They speak a strange language. It is not the same as that of the Ottawas, who once worked for my father.”

“Did you know their tongue?”

“A few words, and some of the signs. This,”–raising her hand, with the first finger extended, and slowly moving her arm in a half circle from horizon to horizon,–“this meant a sun,–one day.”

Menard looked at her for a moment in silence. He enjoyed her enthusiasm.

“Why don’t you learn Iroquois? You would enjoy it. It is a beautiful tongue,–the language of metaphor and poetry.”

“I should like to,” she replied, looking with a faint smile at Danton and the priest, who were sitting under a beech tree, mumbling in low tones.

“You shall join the class, Mademoiselle. You shall begin to-morrow. It was thoughtless of Danton to take the Father’s instruction to himself alone.”

“And then, M’sieu, I will know what the Indians say when they sit up stiffly in their blankets, and talk down in their throats. They have such dignity. It is hard not to believe them when they look straight at one.”

“Don’t you believe them?”

“The three this morning,–they did not tell the truth.”

“Didn’t they?”

“Why, I understood that you did not believe them.”

“And where did Mademoiselle learn that? Did she follow the conversation?”

“No; but Lieutenant Danton–”

“He told you?”

She nodded. Menard frowned.

“He shouldn’t have done that.”

The maid looked surprised at his remark, and the smile left her face. “Of course, M’sieu,” she said, a little stiffly, “whatever is not meant for my ears–”

Menard was still frowning, and he failed to notice her change in manner. He abruptly gave the conversation a new turn, but seeing after a short time that the maid had lost interest in his sallies, he rose, and called to the priest.

“Father, you are to have a new pupil. Mademoiselle also will study the language of the Iroquois. If you are quick enough with your pupils, we shall soon be able to hold a conversation each night about the fire. Perhaps, if you would forego your exclusive air, Mademoiselle would begin at once.”

Danton, without waiting for the priest to start, came hurriedly over and sat by the maid.

“You must pardon me,” he said, “I did not think,–I did not know that you would be interested. It is so dry.”

The maid smiled at the fire.

“You did not ask,” she replied, “and I could not offer myself to the class.”

“It will be splendid,” said Danton. “We shall learn the language of the trees and the grass and the rivers and the birds. And the message of the wampum belt, too, we shall know. You see,”–looking up at Menard,–“already I am catching the meanings.”

Menard smiled, and then went down the bank, leaving the three to bend their heads together over the mysteries of the Iroquois rules of gender, written out by Father Claude on a strip of bark. It was nearly an hour later, after the maid had crept to her couch beneath the canoe, and Perrot and Guerin had sprawled upon the bales and were snoring in rival keys, that Danton came lightly down the slope humming a drinking song. He saw Menard, and dropped to the ground beside him, with a low laugh.

“Mademoiselle will lead my wits a chase, Menard. Already she is deep in the spirit of the new work.”

“Be careful, my boy, that she leads no more than your wits a chase.”

Danton laughed again.

“I don’t believe there is great danger. What a voice she has! I did not know it at first, when she was frightened and spoke only in the lower tones. Now when she speaks or laughs it is like–”

“Like what?”

“There is no fit simile in our tongue, light as it is. It may be that in the Iroquois I shall find the words. It should be something about the singing brooks or the voice of the leaves at night.”

The lad was in such buoyant spirits that Menard had to harden himself for the rebuke which he must give. With the Indian tribes Menard had the tact, the control of a situation, that would have graced a council of great chiefs; but in matters of discipline, the blunter faculties and language of the white men seemed to give his wit no play. Now, as nearly always, he spoke abruptly.