The Road to Frontenac Part 29

"What is it?"

"A cloth. No,"--as he reached for his coat;--"that is too rough. Here, M'sieu,--" she tore a strip from her skirt, and wrapped it around the forearm. "Hold it with your other hand, just a moment."

She hurried to the hut, and returning with needle and thread, st.i.tched the bandage. Then she helped him on with his coat, and they walked slowly to the hut.

"Where is Father Claude?" she asked.

He pointed to a thicket beyond the hut. There, kneeling by the body of a dying Indian, was the priest, praying silently. He had baptized the warrior with dew from the leaves at his side, and now was claiming his soul for the greater King in whose service his own life had been spent.

The Captain sat beside the maid, their backs to the logs, and watched the s.h.i.+fting groups of warriors. He told her of the arrival of the Big Throat, and of the confusion that resulted. Then for a time they were silent, waiting for the impromptu council to reach a conclusion. The warriors finally began to drift away, though the younger and more curious ones still hung about. A group of braves came slowly toward the hut.

"That is the Big Throat in front," said Menard. "The broad-shouldered warrior beside him is the Talking Eagle, the best-known chief of the clan of the Bear. They are almost here. We had better stand. Are you too tired?"

"No, indeed."

Father Claude had seen the group approaching, and he joined Menard.

The Big Throat stood motionless and looked at the Captain.

"My brother, the Big Buffalo, has asked to speak with the Big Throat,"

he said at length.

Menard bowed, but did not reply.

"He asks for his release,--and for the holy man and the squaw?"

"The Big Buffalo asks nothing save what the chiefs of the Onondagas would give to a chief taken in battle. The Long Arrow has lied to the Big Buffalo. He has soiled his hands with the blood of women and holy Fathers. The Big Buffalo was told by Onontio, whom all must obey, to come to the Onondagas and give them his word. The Long Arrow was impatient. He would not let him journey in peace. He wished to injure him; to let his blood. Now the Big Buffalo is here. He asks that he may be heard at the council, to give the chief the word of Onontio.

That is all."

The Big Throat's face was inscrutable. He looked at Menard without a word until the silence grew tense, and the maid caught her breath.

Then he said, with the cool, diplomatic tone that concealed whatever kindness or justice may have prompted the words:--

"The Big Buffalo shall be heard at the council to-night. The chiefs of the Onondagas never are deaf to the words of Onontio."

CHAPTER XII.

THE LONG HOUSE.

The council-house was a hundred paces or more in length. The frame was of tall hickory saplings planted in the ground in two rows, with the tops bent over and lashed together in the form of an arch. The building was not more than fifteen yards wide. The lower part of the outer wall was of logs, the upper part and the roof of bark. Instead of a chimney there was a narrow opening in the roof, extending the length of the building.

A row of smouldering fires reached nearly from end to end of the house. The smoke struggled upward, but failing, for the greater part, to find the outlet overhead, remained inside to clog the air and dim the eyes. The chiefs sat in a long ellipse in the central part of the house, some sitting erect with legs crossed, others half reclining, while a few lay sprawling, their chins resting on their hands. The Big Throat sat with the powerful chiefs of the nation at one end. The lesser sachems, including the Long Arrow, sat each before his own band of followers. The second circle was made up of the older and better-known warriors. Behind these, pressing close to catch every word of the argument, were braves, youths, women, and children, mixed together indiscriminately. A low platform extended the length of the building against the wall on each side, and this held another crowding, elbowing, whispering ma.s.s of redskins. Every chief and warrior, as well as most of the women, held each a pipe between his teeth, and puffed out clouds of smoke into the thick air.

The maid's eyes smarted and blurred in the smoke. It reached her throat, and she coughed.

"Lie down, Mademoiselle," said Menard. "Breathe close to the ground and it will not be so bad."

She hesitated, looking at the Big Throat, who sat with arms folded, proud and dignified. Then she smiled, and lay almost flat on the ground, breathing in the current of less impure air that pa.s.sed beneath the smoke. They had been placed in the inner circle, next to the chiefs of the nations, where Menard's words would have the weight that, to the mind of the Big Throat, was due to a representative of the French Governor, even in time of war. Father Claude, sitting on the left of the maid, was looking quietly into the fire. He had committed the case into the hands of Providence, and he was certain that the right words would be given to the Captain.

It was nearing the close of the afternoon. A beam of sunlight slipped in at one end of the roof-opening, and slanted downward, clearing a s.h.i.+ning way through the smoke. A Cayuga chief was speaking.

"The corn is ripening in the fields about the Onondaga village. As I came down the hills of the west to-day I saw the green tops waving in the wind, and I was glad, for I knew that my brothers would feast in plenty, that their Manitous have been kind. The Cayugas, too, have great fields of corn, and the Senecas. Their women have worked faithfully that the land might be plentiful.

"But a storm is breaking over the cornfields of the Senecas. It is a great cloud that has come down from the north, with the flash of fire and the roar of thunder, and with hailstones of lead that will leave no stalk standing. My brothers know the strength of the north wind.

They have not forgotten other storms that would have laid waste the villages of the Senecas and the Mohawks. And they have not forgotten their Manitous, who have whispered to them when the clouds appeared in the northern sky, 'Rise up, Mohawks and Oneidas and Onondagas and Cayugas and Senecas, and stand firmly against this storm, and your homes and your fields shall not be destroyed.'"

The house was silent with interest. The maid raised her head and watched the stolid faces of the chiefs in the inner circle. Not an expression changed from beginning to end of the speech. Beyond, she could see other, younger faces, some eager, some bitter, some defiant, some smiling, and all showing the flush of excitement,--but these grim old chiefs had long schooled their faces to hide their thoughts. They held their blankets close, and puffed deliberately at their pipes with hardly a movement of the lips.

The Cayuga went on:--

"Messengers have come to the Cayugas from their brothers, the Senecas, telling of the storm that is rus.h.i.+ng on them. The Cayugas know the hearts of the Five Nations. When the Mohawks have risen to defend their homes, the hearts of the Cayugas have been warm, and they have taken up the hatchet with their brothers. When the Onondagas have gone on the war-path, Senecas and Cayugas have gone with them, and the trouble of one has been the trouble of all."

"The good White Father is no longer the war chief of the white men.

The Great Mountain, who knew the voice of the forest, who spoke with the tongue of the redman, has been called back to his Great-Chief-Across-the-Water. His word was the word of kindness, and when he spoke our hearts were warm. But another mountain is now the war chief, a mountain that spits fire and lead, that speaks with a double tongue. The Five Nations have never turned from a foe. The enemy of the Senecas has been the enemy of the Mohawks. If the storm strikes the fields of the Senecas, their brothers will not turn away and stop their ears and say they do not hear the thunder, for they remember the storms of other seasons, and they know that the hail that destroys one field will destroy other fields. And so this is the word of the Cayugas:--Let all the warriors of the Five Nations take up the hatchet; let them go on the war-path to tell this white chief with the double tongue that the Five Nations are one nation; that they are bolder than thunder, swifter than fire, stronger than lead."

The maid found it hard, with her imperfect knowledge of the language, to follow his metaphors. She had partly risen, heedless of the smoke, and was leaning forward with her eyes fixed on the stern face of the speaker. Menard bent down, and half smiled at her excitement.

"What is it?" she whispered. "He is for war?"

"Yes; he naturally would be." There was a stir about the house, as the speech ended, and they could speak softly without drawing notice. "The Cayugas are nearer to the Senecas than the other nations, and they fear that they too may suffer."

"Then you do not think they all feel with him?"

"No; the Oneidas and Mohawks, and even the Onondagas, are too far to the east to feel in danger. They know how hard it would be for the Governor to move far from his base in this country. It may be that the younger warriors will be for fighting, but the older heads will think of the corn."

"Will the Big Throat speak?"

"Yes; but not like these others. He talks simply and forcibly. That is the way when a chief's reputation is made. The Big Throat won his name, as a younger brave, by his wonderful oratory."

"And you, M'sieu,--you will be heard?"

"Yes; I think so. We must not talk any more now. They will not like it."

The Cayuga was followed by a wrinkled old chief of the Oneidas, called the Hundred Skins. He stepped forward and stood near the fire, his blanket drawn close about his shoulders, where the red light could play on his face. A whisper ran around the outer circle, for it was known that he stood for peace.

"My Cayuga brother has spoken wisely," he began, in a low but distinct voice. He looked slowly about the house to command attention. "The Oneidas have not forgotten the storms of other seasons; they have not forgotten the times of starving, when neither the Manitous of the redman nor the G.o.d of the white man came to help. The grain stood brown in the fields; the leaves hung dead from the trees; there was no wind to cool the fever that carried away old men and young men, squaws and children. And when the wind came, and the cold and snow of the winter, there was no food in the lodges of the Five Nations. My brothers have heard that the corn is rising to a man's height--they have seen it to-day in the fields of the Onondagas. They know that this corn must be cared for like the children of their lodges, if they wish food to eat when the winter comes and the fields are dead. They know what it will cost them to take the war-path.

"Twelve moons have not gone since the chiefs of the Senecas rose in this house and called on the warriors of the Five Nations to take up the hatchet against the white men of the north. The skins of the beaver were talking in their ears. They saw great canoes on the white man's rivers loaded with skins, and their hands itched and their hearts turned inward. Then the wise chiefs of the Oneidas and Cayugas and Onondagas and Mohawks spoke well. They were not on the war-path; the hatchet was deep in the ground, and young trees were growing over it. Then the Oneidas said that the White Chief would not forget if the Senecas heeded their itching hands and listened to the bad medicine of the beaver skins in their ears. But the Senecas were not wise, and they took up the hatchet.

"This is the word of the Oneidas to the chiefs of the Long House:--The Seneca has put his foot in the trap. Then shall the Oneida and Onondaga and Cayuga and Mohawk rush after, that they too may put in their feet where they can get away only by gnawing off the bone? Shall the wise chiefs of the Long House run into fight like the dogs of their village? The Oneidas say no! The Senecas took up the hatchet; let them bury it where they can. And when the winter comes, the Oneidas will send them corn that they may not have another time of starving."

Menard was watching the Oneida with eyes that fairly snapped. The low voice stopped, and another murmur ran around the outer circles. The Hundred Skins had spoken boldly, and the Cayuga young men looked stern. The chief stepped slowly back and resumed his seat, and then, not before, did Menard's face relax. He looked about cautiously to see if he was observed, then settled back and gazed stolidly into the fire. The old Oneida had played directly into his hand; by letting slip the motive for the Seneca raid of the winter before, he had strengthened the one weak point in the speech Menard meant to make.

The next speaker was one of the younger war chiefs of the Onondagas.

He made an effort to speak with the calmness of the older men, but there was now and then a flash in his eye and an ill-controlled vigour in his voice that told Menard and the priest how strong was the war party of this village. The Onondaga plunged into his speech without the customary deliberation.

"Our brothers, the Senecas, have sent to us for aid. We have been called to the Long House to hear the voice of the Senecas,--not from the lips of their chiefs, for they have fields and villages to guard against the white man, and they are not here to stand before the council and ask what an Iroquois never refuses. The Cayuga has spoken with the voice of the Seneca. Shall the chiefs and warriors of the Long House say to the Cayuga, 'Go back to your village and send messengers to the Senecas to tell them that their brothers of the Long House have corn and squaws and children that are more to them than the battles of their brothers--tell the Senecas that the Oneidas must eat and cannot fight'? There is corn in the fields of the Oneidas. But there is food for all the Five Nations in the great house on the Lake."