THE COURT MARTIAL
De Tonty took the paper from my hand, glanced at it, then lifted his eyes inquiringly to mine.
“’Tis in the governor’s own hand. How came this in your possession?”
“I found it in Cassion’s private bag last night, under the berth yonder. Later he came and carried the bag away, never suspecting it had been opened. His commission was there also. Read it, Monsieur.”
He did so slowly, carefully, seeming to weigh every word, his eyes darkening, and a flush creeping into his swarthy cheeks.
“Madame,” he exclaimed at last. “I care not whether the man be your husband, but this is a damnable conspiracy, hatched months ago in Quebec.”
I bowed my head.
“Beyond doubt, Monsieur.”
“And you found nothing more? no documents taken from Hugo Chevet?”
“None, Monsieur; they were either destroyed in accordance with La Barre’s instructions, or else M. Cassion has them on his person.”
“But I do not understand the reason for such foul treachery. What occurred back in New France to cause the murder of Chevet, and this attempt to convict De Artigny of the crime?”
“Sit here, Monsieur,” I said, my voice trembling, “and I will tell you the whole story. I must tell you, for there is no one else in Fort St. Louis whom I can trust.”
He sat silent, and bareheaded, his eyes never leaving my face as I spoke. At first I hesitated, my words hard to control, but as I continued, and felt his sympathy, speech became easier. All unconsciously his hand reached out and rested on mine, as though in encouragement, and only twice did he interrupt my narrative with questions. I told the tale simply, concealing nothing, not even my growing love for De Artigny. The man listening inspired my utmost confidence––I sought his respect and faith. As I came to the end his hand grasp tightened, but, for a moment, he remained motionless and silent, his eyes grave with thought.
“’Tis a strange, sad case,” he said finally, “and the end is hard to determine. I believe you, Madame, and honor your choice. The case is strong against De Artigny; even your testimony is not for his defense. Does M. Cassion know you saw the young man that night?”
“He has dropped a remark, or two, which shows suspicion. Possibly some one of the men saw me outside the Mission House, and made report.”
“Then he will call you as witness. If I know the nature of Cassion his plan of trial is a mere form, although doubtless he will ask the presence of Captain de Baugis, and M. de la Durantaye. Neither will oppose him, so long as he furnishes the proof necessary to convict. He will give his evidence, and call the Indian, and perchance a soldier or two, who will swear to whatever he wishes. If needed he may bring you in also to strengthen the case. De Artigny will make no defense, because he has no witnesses, and because he has a fool notion that he might compromise you by telling the whole truth.”
“Then there is no hope? nothing we can do?”
“No, Madame; not now. I shall not be consulted, nor asked to be present. I am under strict order from La Salle not to oppose La Barre’s officers, and, even if I were disposed to disobey my chief, I possess no force with which to act. I have but ten men on whom I could rely, while they number over forty.” He leaned closer, whispering, “Our policy is to wait, and act after the prisoner has been condemned.”
“How? You mean a rescue?”
“Ay, there lies the only hope. There is one man here who can turn the trick. He is De Artigny’s comrade 322 and friend. Already he has outlined a plan to me, but I gave no encouragement. Yet, now, that I know the truth, I shall not oppose. Have you courage, Madame, to give him your assistance? ’Tis like to be a desperate venture.”
I drew a deep breath, but with no sense of fear.
“Yes, Monsieur. Who is the man I am to trust?”
“Francois de Boisrondet, the one who led the rescue party last night.”
“A gallant lad.”
“Ay, a gentleman of France, a daring heart. Tonight––”
The door opened, and the figure of a man stood outlined against the brighter glow without. De Tonty was on his feet fronting the newcomer, ere I even realized it was Cassion who stood there, glaring at us. Behind him two soldiers waited in the sunshine.
“What is the meaning of this, M. de Tonty?” he exclaimed, with no pretense at friendliness. “A rather early morning call, regarding which I was not even consulted. Have husbands no rights in this wilderness paradise?”
“Such rights as they uphold,” returned the Italian, erect and motionless. “I am always at your service, M. Cassion. Madame and I have conversed without permission. If that be crime I answer for it now, or when you will.”
It was in Cassion’s heart to strike. I read the desire in his eyes, in the swift clutch at his sword hilt; but the sarcastic smile on De Tonty’s thin lips robbed him of courage.
“’Tis best you curb your tongue,” he snarled, “or I will have you in the guardhouse with De Artigny. I command now.”
“So I hear. Doubtless you could convict me as easily.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that your whole case is a tissue of lies.”
“Pah! you have her word for it, no doubt. But you will all sing a different song presently. Ay, and it will be her testimony which will hang the villain.”
“What is this you say, Monsieur––my testimony?”
“Just that––the tale of what you saw in the Mission garden at St. Ignace. Sacre, that shot hits, does it! You thought me asleep, and with no knowledge of your escapade, but I had other eyes open that night, my lady. Now will you confess the truth?”
“I shall conceal nothing, Monsieur.”
“’Twill be best that you make no attempt,” he sneered, his old braggart spirit reasserting itself as De Tonty kept silent. “I have guard here to escort you to the Commandant’s office.”
“You do me honor.” I turned to De Tonty. “Shall I go, Monsieur?”
“I think it best, Madame,” he replied soberly, his dark eyes contemptuously surveying Cassion. “To refuse would only strengthen the case against the prisoner. M. Cassion will not, I am sure, deny me the privilege of accompanying you. Permit me to offer my arm.”
I did not glance toward Cassion, but felt no doubt as to the look on his face; yet he would think twice before laying hand on this stern soldier who had offered me protection. The guard at the door fell aside promptly, and permitted us to pass. Some order was spoken, in a low tone, and they fell in behind with rifles at trail. Once in the open I became, for the first time, aware of irregular rifle firing, and observed in surprise, men posted upon a narrow staging along the side of the log stockade.
“Is the fort being attacked?” I asked.
“There has been firing for some days,” he answered, “but no real attack. The savages merely hide yonder amid the rocks and woods, and strive to keep us from venturing down the trail. Twice we have made sortie, and driven them away, but ’tis a useless waste of fighting.” He called to a man posted above the gate. “How is it this morning, Jules?”
The soldier glanced about cautiously, keeping his head below cover.
“Thick as flies out there, Monsieur,” he answered, 325 “and with a marksman or two among them. Not ten minutes since Bowain got a ball in his head.”
“And no orders to clear the devils out?”
“No, Monsieur––only to watch that they do not form for a rush.”
The Commandant’s office was built against the last stockade––a log hut no more pretentious than the others. A sentry stood at each side of the closed door, but De Tonty ignored them, and ushered me into the room. It was not large, and was already well filled, a table littered with papers occupying the central space, De Baugis and De la Durantaye seated beside it, while numerous other figures were standing pressed against the walls. I recognized the familiar faces of several of our party, but before I recovered from my first embarrassment De Baugis arose, and with much politeness offered me a chair.
De Tonty remained beside me, his hand resting on my chair back, as he coolly surveyed the scene. Cassion pushed past, and occupied a vacant chair, between the other officers, laying his sword on the table. My eyes swept about the circle of faces seeking De Artigny, but he was not present. But for a slight shuffling of feet, the silence was oppressive. Cassion’s unpleasant voice broke the stillness.
“M. de Tonty, there is a chair yonder reserved for your use.”
“I prefer remaining beside Madame Cassion,” he answered calmly. “It would seem she has few friends in this company.”
“We are all her friends,” broke in De Baugis, his face flushing, “but we are here to do justice, and avenge a foul crime. ’Tis told us that madame possesses certain knowledge which has not been revealed. Other witnesses have testified, and we would now listen to her word. Sergeant of the guard, bring in the prisoner.”
He entered by way of the rear door, manacled, and with an armed soldier on either side. Coatless and bareheaded, he stood erect in the place assigned him, and as his eyes swept the faces, his stern look changed to a smile as his glance met mine. My eyes were still upon him, seeking eagerly for some message of guidance, when Cassion spoke.
“M. de Baugis will question the witness.”
“The court will pardon me,” said De Artigny. “The witness to be heard is Madame?”
“Certainly; what means your interruption?”
“To spare the lady unnecessary embarrassment. She is my friend, and, no doubt, may find it difficult to testify against me. I merely venture to ask her to give this court the exact truth.”
“Your words are impertinent.”
“No, M. de Baugis,” I broke in, understanding all 327 that was meant. “Sieur de Artigny has spoken in kindness, and has my thanks. I am ready now to bear witness frankly.”
Cassion leaned over whispering, but De Baugis merely frowned, and shook his head, his eyes on my face. I felt the friendly touch of M. de Tonty’s hand on my shoulder, and the slight pressure brought me courage.
“What is it you desire me to tell, Monsieur?”
“The story of your midnight visit to the Mission garden at St. Ignace, the night Hugo Chevet was killed. Tell it in your own words, Madame.”
As I began my voice trembled, and I was obliged to grip the arms of the chair to keep myself firm. There was a mist before my eyes, and I saw only De Artigny’s face, as he leaned forward eagerly listening. Not even he realized all I had witnessed that night, and yet I must tell the truth––the whole truth, even though the telling cost his life. The words came faster, and my nerves ceased to throb. I read sympathy in De Baugis’ eyes, and addressed him alone. Twice he asked me questions, in so kindly a manner as to win instant reply, and once he checked Cassion when he attempted to interrupt, his voice stern with authority. I told the story simply, plainly, with no attempt at equivocation, and when I ceased speaking the room was as silent as a tomb. De Baugis sat motionless, but 328 Cassion stared at me across the table, his face dark with passion.
“Wait,” he cried as though thinking me about to rise. “There are questions yet.”
“Monsieur,” said De Baugis coldly. “If there are questions it is my place to ask them.”
“Ay,” angrily beating his hand on the board, “but it is plain to be seen the woman has bewitched you. No, I will not be denied; I am Commandant here, and with force enough behind me to make my will law. Scowl if you will, but here is La Barre’s commission, and I dare you ignore it. So answer me, Madame––you saw De Artigny bend over the body of Chevet––was your uncle then dead?”
“I know not, Monsieur; but there was no movement.”
“Why did you make no report?––was it to shield De Artigny?”
I hesitated, yet the answer had to be made.
“The Sieur de Artigny was my friend, Monsieur. I did not believe him guilty, yet my evidence would have cast suspicion upon him. I felt it best to remain still, and wait.”
“You suspected another?”
“Not then, Monsieur, but since.”
Cassion sat silent, not overly pleased with my reply, but De Baugis smiled grimly.
“By my faith,” he said, “the tale gathers interest. You have grown to suspicion another since, Madame––dare you name the man?”
My eyes sought the face of De Tonty, and he nodded gravely.
“It can do no harm, Madame,” he muttered softly. “Put the paper in De Baugis’ hand.”
I drew it, crumpled, from out the bosom of my dress, rose to my feet, and held it forth to the Captain of Dragoons. He grasped it wonderingly.
“What is this, Madame?”
“One page from a letter of instruction. Read it, Monsieur; you will recognize the handwriting.”