The lieutenant pointed to an arrow that was sticking in a tree beside him, slanting downward. “They are climbing trees. Listen. You can hear them talking, and calling down. I’ve fired, but I don’t get them.” 131
Menard listened closely, and shot for the sound, but with no result.
“We’ve got to stop this, Danton. I don’t understand it. It isn’t like the Iroquois to keep at it after a repulse. Tell Father Claude; he is shooting too low.” Menard glanced along the line at his men. The drunken transport man lay silent at his post; beyond him were his mate and one of the Montreal men, both of them reckless and frightened by turns, shooting aimlessly into the dark. The arrows were rattling down about them now. One grazed Father Claude’s back as he stooped to take aim, and straightened him up with a jerk. A moment later a bullet sang close past Menard’s head. He looked for the maid; she was sitting by the canoe, sewing, giving no heed to the arrows.
The Montreal man groaned softly, and flattened out, with an arrow slanting into the small of his back; which so unmanned the only other conscious engagé that he sank by him, sobbing, and trying to pull out the arrow with his hands. Menard sprang up.
“My God, Danton! Father Claude! This is massacre. Run for the canoe. My turn, eh?” 132
“What is it?” asked Danton. “Did they get you?”
For reply, Menard tore an arrow from the flesh of his forearm and dashed down the bank, musket in hand. The maid was tugging at the canoe, struggling to move it toward the water. She did not look up to see the yellow, crimson, and green painted figures rise from the reeds that fringed the water but a few yards away; she did not hear the rush of moccasined feet on the gravel. Before she could turn, she was seized and thrown to the ground, surrounded by the Indians, who were facing about hastily to meet Menard. The Captain came among them with a whirl of his musket that sent one warrior to the ground and dropped another, half stunned, across the canoe. Danton was at his heels, and Father Claude, fighting like demons with muskets and knives.
“Quick, Mademoiselle!” Menard lifted her as he spoke, and swung her behind him; and then the three were facing the group of howling, jumping figures, which was increased rapidly by those who had followed the Frenchmen down the bank. “Come back here, Father. Protect the maid! They dare not attack you, if you drop your musket! Loose your hold, 133 Mademoiselle.” He caught roughly at the slender arms that held about his waist, parrying a knife stroke with his other hand. “They will kill you if you cling to me. Now, Danton! Never mind your arm. I have one in the hand. Fight for the maid and France!” Menard was shouting for sheer lust and frenzy of battle, “What is the matter with the devils? Why don’t they shoot? God, Danton, they’re coming at us with clubs!” He called out in the Iroquois tongue: “Come at us, cowards! Make an end of it! Where are your bows? your muskets? Where is the valour of the Onondagas––of my brothers?”
The last words brought forth a chorus of jeers and yells. The two officers stood side by side at the water’s edge. Behind them, knee-deep in the water, was Father Claude, holding the maid in his arms. The Indians seemed to draw together, still with that evident effort to take their game alive, for two tall chiefs were rushing about, cautioning the warriors. Then, of a sudden, the whole body came forward with a rush, and Menard, Danton, Father Claude, and the maid went down; the three men fighting and splashing until they lay, bound with thongs, on the beach. 134
Menard turned his head and saw that Danton lay close to him.