Samuel Merwin - The Road to Frontenac

“Have you forgotten our talk of this morning, Danton?”

“No,” replied the boy, looking up in surprise.

The night had none of the dampness that had left a white veil over the morning just gone. The moon was half hidden behind the western trees. The sky, for all the dark, was blue and deep, set with thousands of stars, each looking down at its mate in the shining water.

“I spoke of the importance of keeping our own counsel.”

Danton began to feel what was coming. He looked down at the ground without replying.

“To-night Mademoiselle has repeated a part of our conversation.”

“Mademoiselle,–why, she is one of our party. She knows about us,–who we are, what we are going for–”

“Then you have told her, Danton?”

“How could she help knowing? We are taking her to Frontenac.”

“Father Claude has not told her why we go to Frontenac–nor have I.”

“But Major Provost is her friend–”

“He would never have told her.”

“But she seemed to know about it.”

“Then you have talked it over with her?”

“Why, no,–that is, in speaking of our journey we said something of the meaning of the expedition. It could hardly be expected that we,–I fail to see, Captain, what it is you are accusing me of.”

“You have not been accused yet, Danton. Let me ask you a question. Why did you enter the King’s army?”

Danton hesitated, and started once or twice to frame answer, but made no reply.

“Did you wish a gay uniform, to please the maids, to–”

“You are unfair, M’sieu.”

“No, I wish to know. We will say, if you like, that you have hoped to be a soldier,–a soldier of whom the King may one day have cause to be proud.”

Danton flushed, and bowed his head.

“I offered you the chance to go on this mission, Danton, because I believed in you. I believed that you had the making of a soldier. This is not a child’s errand, this of ours. It is the work of strong men. This morning I told you of my talk with the three Onondagas because I have planned to take you into my confidence, and to give you the chance to make a name for yourself. I made a point of the importance of keeping such things to yourself.”

“But Mademoiselle, M’sieu, she is different–”

“Look at the facts, Danton. I told you this morning: within twelve hours you have passed on your information. How do I know that you would not have let it slip to others if you had had the chance? You forget that Mademoiselle is a woman, and the first and last duty of a soldier is to tell no secrets to a woman.”

“You speak wrongly of Mademoiselle. It is cowardly to talk thus.”

Menard paused to get control of his temper.

“Cowardly, Danton? Is that the word you apply to your commander?”

“Your pardon, M’sieu! A thousand pardons! It escaped me–”

“We will pass it by. I want you to understand this matter. Mademoiselle will spend a night in Montreal. We shall leave her with other women. A stray word, which to her might mean nothing, might be enough to give the wrong persons a hint of the meaning of our journey. A moment’s nervousness might slip the bridle from her tongue. All New France is not so loyal that we can afford to drop a chance secret here and there. As to this maid, she is only a child, and by giving her our secrets, you are forcing her to bear a burden which we should bear alone. These Indians this morning were spies, I am inclined to believe, scouting along the river for information of the coming campaign. The only way that we can feel secure is by letting no word escape our lips, no matter how trivial. I tell you this, not so much for this occasion as for a suggestion for the future.”

“Very well, M’sieu. You will please accept my complete apologies.”

“I shall have to add, Danton, that if any further mistake of this kind occurs I shall be forced to dismiss you from my service. Now that I have said this, I want you to understand that I don’t expect it to happen. I have believed in you, Danton, and I stand ready to be a friend to you.”

Menard held out his hand. Danton clasped it nervously, mumbling a second apology. For a few moments longer they sat there, Menard trying to set Danton at ease, but the boy was flushed, and he spoke only half coherently. He soon excused himself and wandered off among the trees and the thick bushes.

During the next day Danton was in one of his sullen moods. He worked feverishly, and, with the maid, kept Father Claude occupied for the greater part of the time, as they paddled on, with conversation, and with discussion of the Iroquois words. The maid felt the change from the easy relations in the party, and seemed a little depressed, but she threw herself into the studying. Often during the day she would take up a paddle, and join in the stroke. At first Menard protested, but she laughed, and said that it was a “rest” after sitting so long.

They were delayed on the following day by a second accident to the canoe, so that they were a full day late in reaching Montreal. They moved slowly up the channel, past the islands and the green banks with their little log-houses or, occasionally, larger dwellings built after the French manner. St. Helen’s Island, nearly opposite the city, had a straggling cluster of hastily built bark houses, and a larger group of tents where the regulars were encamped, awaiting the arrival of Governor Denonville with the troops from Quebec.

Menard stopped at the island, guiding the canoe to the bank where a long row of canoes and bateaux lay close to the water.

“You might get out and walk around,” he said to the others. “I shall be gone only a few moments.”

Father Claude sat on the bank, lost in meditation. Danton and the maid walked together slowly up and down, beyond earshot from the priest. Since Menard’s rebuke, both the lad and the maid had shown a slight trace of resentment. It did not come out in their conversation, but rather in their silences, and in the occasions which they took to sit and walk apart from the others. It was as if a certain common ground of interest had come to them. The maid, for all her shyness and even temper, was not accustomed to such cool authority as Menard was developing. The priest was keeping an eye on the fast-growing acquaintanceship, and already had it vaguely in mind to call it to the attention of Menard, who was getting too deeply into the spirit and the details of his work to give much heed.

Menard was soon back.

“Push off,” he said. “The Major is not here. We shall have to look for him in the city.”

They headed across the stream. The city lay before them, on its gentle slope, with the mountain rising behind like an untiring sentry. It was early in the afternoon, and on the river were many canoes and small boats, filled with soldiers, friendly Indians, or voyageurs , moving back and forth between the island and the city. They passed close to many of the bateaux, heaped high with provision and ammunition bales, and more than once the lounging soldiers rose and saluted Menard.

At the city wharf he turned to Danton.

“We shall have to get a larger canoe, Danton, and a stronger. Will you see to it, please? We shall have two more in our party from now on. Make sure that the canoe is in the best of condition. Also I wish you would see to getting the rope and the other things we may need in working through the rapids. Then spend your time as you like. We shall start early in the morning.”

Menard and Father Claude together went with the maid to the Superior, who arranged for her to pass the night with the sisters. Then Menard left the priest to make his final arrangements at the Mission, and went himself to see the Commandant, to whom he outlined the bare facts of his journey to Frontenac.