CHAPTER XXII
THE PRICE OF SLEEP
I do not know that, after all, I can call that sleep which fell upon me. Sleep is merely a blessed veiling of the faculties; this was collapse, deadness. The Indian beside me must have been equally worn, for he lay like a log. We were huddled close to a tree, so were unnoticed, or at least undisturbed. The sun was hours high when I opened my eyes.
I sprang to my feet, dragging the Indian to his knees. He grunted, rubbed his eyes, and feeling sluggish and uncomfortable from the warmth of the morning, found me an incubus. He grunted again, untied the thongs that bound us, and went, stretching and yawning, to find his breakfast.
I stood for a moment marshaling my wits. The bright day and the noise confused me, for I had been deep sunk in unconsciousness, and grasped the real world unsteadily. The camp was even larger than the night had shown, and it took some looking to find the woman's lodge. It was empty; the mat was pulled down from before the door.
I should have expected nothing else, for the morning was far advanced, but I felt baffled, belated, like one whose long unconsciousness had carried him hopelessly out of touch with his surroundings. Most of the Indians were gathered at the shore, and I made my way toward them. I went but slowly, for I had to feign indifference. I knew that every step was watched. Perhaps the woman herself was watching. I burned with shame to think she should have seen me sleep so soddenly. I expected every moment to see her in the crowd.
But when I reached the beach the crowd was straying as if the excitement were over. Far out on the water to the northeast was a flotilla of canoes fast disappearing. Whom did they carry? Had they left from the camp? I cursed myself for my lost hours. The threads of the situation had slipped from my hand, and all my feeling of competence and hope of the night before had gone with them. I could see no sign of the woman nor of Starling. Pierre's red head was a beacon, but I dared not go to him. He was bending over a caldron of boiling meat, and I saw that my man was himself again, and that the trencher called him more winningly than any voice of mine. I shrugged, and went to the beach to make what toilet I could. The cold water recreated me. I was more a man when I strolled back in the crowd.
And then I saw Labarthe. He was unbound and mingling with the Indians. Leclerc was close beside him, shuffling and docile; he, too, was free, as was Pierre. Four of us, and our hands at liberty. This looked better. I hummed a tune, clapped a brave on the shoulder, and motioned him to bring me meat and meal. But where was the woman?
I saw Labarthe working toward me with his eyes the other way, so I knew he had news. He was nimbler witted than Pierre, though less valuable on a long stretch. I dreaded Leclerc, for he could not be trusted even for good sense, and I heartily wished him elsewhere. But Pierre came to the rescue; he called Leclerc boldly, and drew him to the meat caldron. I was satisfied. Three of us were working in unison,—and we had worked together in this way before, and won. But where were Pemaou, and Starling, and the woman?
Labarthe made his way near, and stood with his back toward me. I remembered a roundelay that we had sung in camp. I whistled it, picking, in the meantime, at the bone the Indian had brought. I whistled the tune once, twice, several times. Then I fitted words to it.
"Where is the woman? Where is the Englishman? Tell me." I sang the words boldly, but in bastard French with clipped accents. I feared that among all these Senecas there might be one or more who had some smattering of the French tongue.
Labarthe did not answer at once nor look around, so I went on singing. Nonsense words now, with no coherence or meaning, and all in French that a cowherd would have been ashamed to own.
I worked at last to a crescendo of sound that gave Labarthe his cue. He turned and laughed, as if noticing me for the first time. He cocked his head like a game bird, planted his legs apart, and joined the song. He had the biggest voice from Montreal to Chambly, and he sung with full lung power and at breathless speed. It was a torrent of sound; my ears were strained to follow it.
"Five large canoes left this morning," he warbled. "They carried madame, the Englishman, Pemaou, and his Hurons, and a detachment of the Senecas,—some seventy-five in all. They went to Michillimackinac."
The news hit me like a bullet, and I must have whitened, but I kept on singing. I nodded at Labarthe, and sang, I think, of spring and running brooks. Then I flung a jeer at him and ate my breakfast. I ate it systematically and stolidly, though it would not have tempted any but a starving man. I was a fool and a dullard. I had slept away my opportunities, and I could not see that my strength was important to any one. But I determined to preserve it.
If I kept up jest and laughter for the next hours—and I have some memory that I did—it was automatic. For I more nearly touched despair than ever before. I did not need the sentences that I picked up further among the Indians to tell me what had happened. The Senecas, under Pemaou's guidance, had gone to Michillimackinac; had put their heads into the bear's mouth, and yet were as safe as in their own village, for the bear's teeth were drawn, and the Senecas were armored. They traveled with Pemaou, and they had two English prisoners. That insured them protection from the Hurons, who desired the English alliance and had leanings toward the Iroquois. As to the Ottawas,—there was Singing Arrow as hostage. It was significant that the Senecas had allowed Singing Arrow to go unbound. They desired an alliance with the Ottawas. I remembered Longuant's speech, and his indicated policy of casting his strength with the winning side, and I thought it probable they would succeed.
And if they succeeded? Well, Cadillac had his two hundred regulars. Yet he could not hope to win, and he would do what he could to hold off the necessity of trying. He would not dare seize the Senecas. No, the league of the Long House had won. Their braves could sit in our garrison at their leisure and exchange peace belts with our Indians under our eyes. I set my teeth and wondered what part Starling had played in it all. He had grown curiously at ease when he had found himself in an Iroquois camp. I had no choice but to believe that Pemaou had tricked and deceived him, as he had said, but that did not mean that he had not been in league with Pemaou in the beginning. Pemaou was capable of tricking a confederate. No Englishman understands an Indian, and if he had patronized Pemaou the Huron would have retaliated in just this way. I grew sick with the maze of my thought. But one thing I grasped. With part of the Senecas in the French camp, we Frenchmen would be spared for a time. We would be convenient for exchange, or to exact terms of compromise. They might torture us, but they would keep us alive till the issue of this expedition was known.
All about me were preparations for a permanent camp. This puzzled me for a time, but I soon worked out the reason. They were afraid to march with their full force on Michillimackinac, for they feared the friendship of the western tribes for the French, and thought that if a large war party marched openly toward the garrison these tribes would rally to Cadillac's defense. So this camp was kept as watch-dog for the western region. I prayed that Cadillac keep his judgment cool.
One thing brought smiles that I had to turn into vacant and misleading laughter. Through all the talk ran my name,—that they did not know was mine. They had heard that I was stirring among the western tribes, and that I was making them dangerous. They spoke of my knowledge of Indian tongues, and added apocryphal tales of my feats of wit and daring. My image loomed large, and it was no wonder that they did not connect this mythical Colossus with the swaggering royster who played buffoon for their mirth. I wondered that Pemaou had not told them, but I reflected that there is a mutual distrust among Indians that takes the place of reticence, and that that had saved me. I had escaped for the moment, but the ice was thin. I should be given short shrift once my name was known.
The day passed, warm and lovely in the woods and on the water, hideous and sweltering in the stench of the camp. I saw captives die of heat and flies, but I could do nothing. My men took cue from me, and we all laughed and chaffered. I even took a turn at spear throwing, but was too discreet to win. I gained some good-will, perhaps, but nothing more, and when the stars came out that night I ground my teeth to think of how little I had accomplished, and of the slender opportunity ahead.
But the next morning I saw a straw to grasp. Up to that time we had been left to the guardianship of all the camp, but the second day I saw that the huge brave to whom I was tied at night followed me incessantly. I watched, and saw that my men had similar attendants. This was a gain, as I said to Labarthe. I did not try to have connected speech with the men, but by saying a word at a time as we passed we could patch together a few sentences.
From that on I gave the day to winning my special jailer. He was an intelligent Indian and inclined to be good-humored. I amused him, and when I took a net and motioned that we go to the swamp to fish he grunted and agreed.
The swamp lay on the north of the camp, and was, I was sure, part of the great rice field on which the Malhominis had their village to the west. The swamp was flooded so that it would bear a canoe, and it teemed with fish. I took the net,—it was ingeniously woven of nettles pounded to a fibre and then spun into cords,—and showed the Indian how to swing it across an eddy and draw it under with a swift, circular sweep that would entangle any fish. I had success, and the Indian warmed to the sport and tried it himself. He could not do it; he could not get the twist of the hand that was the whole secret, and I had to show him again. He improved and grew ambitious. A few braves wandered over to look at us, but my jailer was jealous of his new accomplishment, and we took a canoe and paddled out of sight. We spent most of the day in the swamp.
That evening I went boldly to Pierre and said a few swift words. I told him to keep as near the swamp as possible, and to tell the other men to do the same. In about two days, if my plans carried, we should be able to accomplish something. In the meantime they must appear contented, and try for the confidence of their guards.
Now my plan was simple. I had in my shirt the bottle of laudanum that all traders carry, and it was my only weapon. Pierre had shown me a small flask of rum which the Indians had not discovered, and which he had had the unexpected self-control to leave untouched. I hoped that when my Indian had learned the casting of his net his vanity could be played on to invite the other Frenchmen and their guards to see his prowess, and that we should then have opportunity to treat the Indians to the laudanum-dosed rum. It was a crazy scheme, but worth a trial. If we could get possession of the canoe, there was some hope that we could make our way to the Malhominis village.
No teacher was ever more zealous than I for my net-thrower. Early the next morning I winked toward the swamp, and jerked my thumb over my shoulder. The Indian came willingly. Why should he not? I was unarmed, and he had knife and hatchet and was my peer in strength. He thought me a strange fool, but useful.
But that morning the lesson went badly. The Indian was clumsy, and being ashamed of himself, grew surly and indifferent. The sun was hot, the water dazzling, and mosquitoes rose in clouds. The Indian wanted to go back to camp, and I cudgeled my wits for expedients to keep him there.
And then I bethought me of an accomplishment which I had shown Indians before. Quickness of hand is my greatest resource, and I had been known to noose a fish. I tore my handkerchief in ribands, made a weighted sling, and had the Indian swing the canoe over a ripple where a great bass lay. I waited my time, then plunged my hand down with the weighted noose. I drew it up, with the fish caught through the gills.
The Indian was pleased. He grunted and exclaimed in his own speech, though he thought I could not understand.
"They say the Frenchman, Montlivet, can do that." Then he looked at me and light dawned.
"You are Montlivet!"
I wasted no time. I do not know how I did it, but I sprang the length of the canoe and was on him before he could reach his knife. The canoe rocked, but righted itself. I knotted my fingers in the Indian's throat, and my body pinioned his arms.
The surprise of my attack gave me a second's vantage, and in it I snatched at the vial in my shirt, and drew the stopper with my teeth. It was difficult, for the great, naked frame was writhing under me, and the canoe pitched like a cork in an eddy. I felt the Indian's hot breath, and his teeth snapping to reach me. His arm was working free and his knife unsheathed. I threw my whole weight on his chest, released my clutch on his neck, and taking both hands, forced his mouth open and dashed the contents of my laudanum vial down his throat. Then I sprang into the water, dragging Indian and canoe after me.
I felt the slash of a knife in my right shoulder as I touched the water, and the Indian's wiry grasp on my coat. I rolled and grappled with him, and the canoe floated away. Hugging each other like twining water snakes, we sank down through the reeds to the slimy ooze of the bottom.
Down there we wrestled for a second, blinded and choking. Then self-love conquered hate, and we kicked ourselves free and spluttered to the surface. My shoulder was stinging, and I could not tell how long I could depend on it. I made a desperate stroke or two, dived, and put myself in the cover of the reeds.
The Indian splashed after me, but the water flowed through the reeds in a dozen channels, and he took the wrong one. He would find his mistake in a moment. I swam a few paces under water, then lay quiet, holding myself up by the reeds, and keeping my mouth to the air. Piece by piece I freed myself of my clothing and let it drop. The cut in my shoulder was raw and made me faint. It was not dangerous, but deep enough to give me trouble, and would make my swimming slow, if, indeed, I could swim at all. I felt the water swash against me and knew the Indian was swimming back. There was only a thin wall of reeds between us, and in a moment he would come to where the channels joined and see my floating garments. I could not stop to secure them, though I had hoped to tie them in a bundle on my back. I dropped under the water and swam away.
I have often marveled how I distanced that Indian so easily. It may have been his discomfort from the opiate, though I have never known how much of what I splashed over him went into his mouth, nor what effect it had. But after a little I heard no sound of pursuit. I thought that perhaps the Indian had gone back to spread the alarm, and I took no risks. I swam as fast as I had strength, resting occasionally by holding on to the reeds, and trying to keep my course due northwest.
And hour by hour passed, and still I kept on swimming. It was torture after the first. I could rest as often as I needed, but the cold water palsied me, and I feared cramp. My shoulder was feverish, and the pain of it sapped my strength. Occasionally I found a log tangled in the reeds, and I pulled myself up on it into the sun. If I had not been able to do that I could not have gone on.
With chill and fever and pain I had light-headed intervals. These came as the afternoon waned, and while they lasted I thought that the woman was in the Seneca camp, and that I must get back to her. Then I would turn and swim with the current, losing in a few minutes as much as I had gained in double the time. Fortunately these seizures were brief, but they would leave me sick and shaken and grasping the reeds for support. Another illusion came at this time: I would hear the woman calling, calling my name. Sometimes she cried that I had forsaken her. That left me weaker than the fever of my wound.
It was impossible to see where I was going, for the reeds were high above my head, but so long as my reason lasted I steered by the sun. I presume that I doubled many times, and lost much space, but that I do not know, for toward the end I traveled like an automaton. I could not fix my mind on where I was going or why, but I kept repeating to myself that I must push against the current, and so, though I lost the idea at times, and found myself drifting, I think that I went some distance after my brain had ceased to direct.
And then I found peace. My mind, freed of the burden of thinking of its surroundings, turned to the woman. She called to me, talked to me, sometimes she walked the reeds at my side. She was all smiles and lightness, and her tongue had never a barb. I forgot to struggle. The narrow channel where I had been fighting my way opened now into a broader passage, and the current flowed under me like an uplifting hand. The woman's voice called me from down-stream; I turned on my back, and floated, dreamy and expectant, toward the river's mouth.