“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 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 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 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 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 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.”
“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 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