“No, I trust not––I trust not. But we are here, and she is here; and not until I know that her journey is over will my eyes close easily at night.”
“But your plan, M’sieu,––you have not told me.”
“Ah, I thought you understood. Did you know about the capture at Frontenac when it happened? No? It was like this. The Governor sent word, with the orders that came up to the fort in May, that at the first sign of trouble or disturbance with the Indians there, d’Orvilliers should seize a few score of them and send them down the river in chains. It would be an example, he said. I was awaiting orders,––I had just returned from the Huron Country and Michillimackinac,––and d’Orvilliers called me to his rooms and showed me the order. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘who in the devil is meddling at Quebec?’ I did not know; I do not know yet. But there was the order. He turned it over to La Grange, with instructions 196 to wait until some offence should give him an excuse.”
“I know the rest, M’sieu.”
“Yes, yes. You have heard a dozen times,––how La Grange was drinking, and how he lied to a peaceful hunting party, and drugged them, and brained one poor devil with his own sword. And what could we do, Father? Right or wrong, the capture was made. It was too late to release them, for the harm was done. If d’Orvilliers had refused to carry out his orders and send them to Quebec, it would have cost him his commission.”
“And you, M’sieu?”
“I was the only officer on detached service at the Fort. D’Orvilliers could not look me in the face when he ordered me to take them.”
“You will tell them this?”
“This? Yes, and more. I will pledge the honour of New France that La Grange shall suffer. The man who has betrayed the Onondagas must be punished before we can have their good faith. Don’t you understand?”
Father Claude walked away a few steps, and then back, his hands clasped before him.