CHAPTER V
MESSASEBE
The boat, now lacking its propelling power, drifted on and out into the clear tide of the mighty stream. The paddlers were idle, and silence had fallen upon all. The rush of this majestic flood, steady, mysterious, secret-keeping, created a feeling of awe and wonder. They gazed and gazed again, up the great waterway, across to its farther shore, along its rolling course below, and still each man forgot his paddle, and still the little ship of New France drifted on, just rocking gently in the mimic waves which ruffled the face of the mighty Father of the Waters.
"By our Lady!" cried Du Mesne, at length, and tears stood in his tan-framed eyes as he turned, "'tis true, all that has been said! Here it is, Messasebe, more mighty than any story could have told! Monsieur L'as, 'tis big enough to carry ships."
"'Twill carry fleets of them one day, Du Mesne," replied John Law. "'Tis a roadway fit for a nation. Ah, Du Mesne! our St. Lawrence, our New France—they dwindle when compared to this new land."
"Aye! and 'tis all our own!" cried Du Mesne. "Look; for the last ten days we have scarce seen even the smoke of a wigwam, and, so far as I can tell, there is not in all this valley now the home of a single white man. My friend Du L'hut—he may be far north of the Superior to-day for aught we know, or somewhere among the Sauteur people. If there he any man below us, let some one else tell who that may be. Sir, I promise you, when I see this big water going on so fast and heading so far away from home—well, I admit it causes me to shiver!"
"'Tis much the same," said Law, "where home may be for me."
"Ah, but 'tis different on the Lakes," said Du Mesne, "for there we always knew the way back, and knew that 'twas down stream."
"He says well," broke in Mary Connynge. "There is something in this big river that chills me. I am afraid."
"And what say you, Tête Gris, and you, Pierre Noir?" asked Law.
"Why, myself," replied the former, "I am with the captain. It matters not. There must always be one trail from which one does not return."
"Oui," said Pierre Noir. "To be sure, we have passed as good beaver country as heart of man could ask; but never was land so good but there was better just beyond."
"They say well, Du Mesne," spoke John Law, presently; "'tis better on beyond. Suppose we never do return? Did I not say to you that I would leave this other world as far behind me as might be?"
"Eh bien, Monsieur L'as, you reply with spirit, as ever," replied Du Mesne, "and it is not for me to stand in the way. My own fortune and family are also with me, and home is where my fire is lit."
"Very well," replied Law. "Let us run the river to its mouth, if need be. 'Tis all one to me. And whether we get back or not, 'tis another tale."
"Oh, I make no doubt we shall win back if need be," replied Du Mesne. "'Tis said the savages know the ways by the Divine River of the Illini to the foot of Michiganon; and that, perhaps, might be our best way back to the Lakes and to the Mountain with our beaver. We shall, provided we reach the Divine River, as I should guess by the stories I have heard, be then below the Illini, the Ottawas and the Miamis, with I know not what tribes from west of the Messasebe. 'Tis for you to say, Monsieur L'as, but for my own part—and 'tis but a hazard at best—I would say remain here, or press on to the river of the Illini."
"'Tis easy of decision, then," replied Law, after a moment of reflection. "We take that course which leads us farther on at least. Again the paddles, my friends! To-night we sup in our own kingdom. Strike up the song, Du Mesne!"
A shout of approval broke from the hardy men along the boat side, and even Jean Breboeuf tossed up his cap upon his paddle shaft.
"Forward, then, mes amis!" cried Du Mesne, setting his own paddle-blade deep into the flood. "En roulant ma boule, roulant—"
Again the chorus rose, and again the hardy craft leaped onward into the unexplored.
Day after day following this the journey was resumed, and day after day the travelers with eager eyes witnessed a prospect of continual change. The bluffs, bolder and more gigantic, towered more precipitous than the banks of the gentler streams which they had left behind. Forests ranged down to the shores, and wide, green-decked islands crept into view, and little timbered valleys of lesser streams came marching down to the imposing flood of Messasebe. Again the serrated bluffs broke back and showed vast vistas of green savannas, covered with tall, waving grasses, broken by little rolling hills, over which crossed herds of elk, and buffalo, and deer.
"'Tis a land of plenty," said Du Mesne one day, breaking the habitual silence into which the party had fallen. "'Tis a great land, and a mighty. And now, Monsieur, I know why the Indians say 'tis guarded by spirits. Sure, I can myself feel something in the air which makes my shoulder-blades to creep."
"'Tis a mighty land, and full of wonders," assented Law, who, in different fashion, had felt the same mysterious spell of this great stream. For himself, he was nearer to reverence than ever yet he had been in all his wild young life.
Now so it happened that at length, after a long though rapid journey down the great river, they came to that stream which they took to be the river of the Illini. This they ascended, and so finally, early in one evening, at the bank of a wide and placid bayou, shaded by willows and birch trees, and by great elms that bore aloft a canopy of clinging vines, they made a landing for the bivouac which was to prove their final tarrying place. The great canot du Nord came to rest at the foot of a timbered hill, back of which stretched high, rolling prairies, dotted with little groves and broken with wide swales and winding sloughs. The leaders of the party, with Tête Gris and Pierre Noir, ascended the bluffs and made brief exploration; not more, as was tacitly understood, with view to choosing the spot for the evening encampment than with the purpose of selecting a permanent stopping place. Du Mesne at length turned to Law with questioning gaze. John Law struck the earth with his heel.
"Here!" said he. "Here let us stop. 'Tis as well as any place. There are flowers and trees, and meadows and hedges, like to those of England. Here let us stay!"
"Ah, you say well indeed!" cried Du Mesne, "and may fortune send us happy enterprises."
"But then, for the houses," continued Law. "I presume we must keep close to this little stream which flows from the bluff. And yet we must have a place whence we can obtain good view. Then, with stout walls to protect us, we might—but see! What is that beyond? Look! There is, if I mistake not, a house already builded!"
"'Tis true, as I live!" cried Du Mesne, lowering his voice instinctively, as his quick eye caught the spot where Law was pointing. "But, good God! what can it mean?"
They advanced cautiously into the little open space beyond them, a glade but a few hundred yards across and lined by encircling trees. They saw indeed a habitation erected by human hands, apparently not altogether without skill. There were rude walls of logs, reinforced by stakes planted in the ground. From the four corners of the inclosure projected overhanging beams. There was an opening in the inclosure, as they discovered upon closer approach, and entering at this rude door, the party looked about them curiously.
Du Mesne shut his lips tight together. This was no house built by the hands of white men. There were here no quarters, no shops, no chapel with its little bell. Instead there stood a few dried and twisted poles, and all around lay the litter of an abandoned camp.
"Iroquois, by the living Mother of God!" cried Pierre Noir.
"Look!" cried Tête Gris, calling them again outside the inclosure. He stood kicking in the ashes of what had been a fire-place. He disclosed, half buried in the charred embers, an iron kettle into which he gazed curiously. He turned away as John Law stepped up beside him.
"There must have been game here in plenty," said Law. "There are bones scattered all about."
Du Mesne and Tête Gris looked at each other in silence, and the former at length replied:
"This is an Iroquois war house, Monsieur L'as," said he. "They lived here for more than a month, and, as you say, they fed well. But these bones you see are not the bones of elk or deer. They are the bones of men, and women, and children."
Law stood taking in each detail of the scene about him.
"Now you have seen what is before us," resumed Du Mesne. "The Iroquois have gone, 'tis true. They have wiped out the villages which were here. There are the little cornfields, but I warrant you they have not seen a tomahawk hoe for a month or more. The Iroquois have gone, yet the fact that they have been here proves they may come again. What say you, Tête Gris; and what is your belief, Pierre?"
Tête Gris remained silent for some moments. "'Tis as Monsieur says," replied he at length. "'Tis all one to me. I go or stay, as it shall please the others. There is always the one trail over which one does not return."
"And you, Pierre?"
"I stay by my friends," replied Pierre Noir, briefly.
"And you, Monsieur L'as?" asked Du Mesne.
Law raised his head with the old-time determination. "My friends," said he, "we have elected to come into this country and take its conditions as we find them. If we falter, we lose; of that we may rest assured. Let us not turn back because a few savages have been here and have slaughtered a few other savages. For me, there seems but one opinion possible. The lightning has struck, yet it may not strike again at the same tree. The Iroquois have been here, but they have departed, and they have left nothing to invite their return. Now, it is necessary that we make a pause and build some place for our abode. Here is a post already half builded to our hands."
"But if the savages return?" said Du Mesne.
"Then we will fight," said John Law.
"And right you are," replied Du Mesne. "Your reasoning is correct. I vote that we build here our station."
"Myself also," said Tête Gris. And Pierre Noir nodded his assent in silence.