Chapter XV: Joncaire Is Hospitable

It was a week before we left De-o-nun-da-ga-a, and although the delay irked me it could not be avoided, for the prolonged absence of Ta-wan-ne-ars from his post as Warden of the Western Door of the Long House had permitted an accumulation of questions of political and military importance which required his attention. He spent the days either in consultations with the _roy-an-ehs_ and chiefs and delegations from neighboring tribes or in inspecting the marches. Corlaer departed with a small band of braves upon a hunting-trip, but I availed myself of the opportunity to gain an insight into the workings of the remarkable military confederacy which held the balance of power in America.

Do-ne-ho-ga-weh, as Guardian of the Western Door, was the political custodian of the most important frontier of the League. As such he was supreme.

But Ta-wan-ne-ars with his assistant chief, So-no-so-wa,[1] of the Turtle Clan, were the military captains of the Western Door. They were the only permanent war-chiefs in the confederacy, all others being elected to temporary command in times of emergency. They were also assistants to Do-ne-ho-ga-weh and attended him in this capacity at meetings of the Ho-yar-na-go-war, the great council of the _roy-an-ehs_. Their duty was to keep in proper subjection the numerous tributary nations, beyond the actual boundaries of the Long House, and equally to safeguard the Western Door from attack by any enemy.

[1] "Great Oyster Shell." The names of the two permanent war-chiefs were really titles of honor, and were hereditary in an indirect line like the rank of _roy-an-eh_, the idea being to select the ablest man of his generation in a particular family.

So-no-so-wa at the time of my visit was absent on a trip to the south to chastise a band of Shawanese who had presumed to invade the hunting-grounds of the League. So jealous was the watch kept over the supremacy of the Long House that the slightest aggression or impertinence, even against a tributary nation, was punished at the earliest opportunity.

One of Ta-wan-ne-ars' first acts was to organize a war-party to harry the Miamis in retaliation for an attack upon a village of the Andastes in the Susquehanna Valley who were subject to the jurisdiction of the League.

"It was the intent of the Founders to prevent quarrels amongst the five nations who formed the Ho-de-no-sau-nee," explained Ta-wan-ne-ars as we sat in the Council-House after the departure of an embassy from the Jego-sa-sa[2] or so-called Neuter Nation, who had petitioned for relief from the military aid which had been demanded of them for the expedition against the Miamis. "Before we built the Long House we fought constantly amongst ourselves. Afterwards we fought only against others, and because we were united we always won, although sometimes our wars lasted for many years.

[2] Wildcats.

"And now that we are strong, and only the white man can venture to oppose our war-parties, we fight for nothing more than the right to impose peace upon others. If a nation makes trouble for us too frequently we subjugate it, as we did the Delawares. If a nation is troublesome upon occasion, like the Je-go-sa-sa, we make it a tributary, and in return we protect it. If a nation is in difficulties, as were the Tuscaroras in the South, and they appeal to us for aid, we give it. We took the Tuscaroras into the League because that was the best way we could protect them."

"Against whom?" I asked innocently.

"Against the white men," he answered. "Aye, brother, down in the Southern colonies the white men hunger for land just as they do here in New York. When an Indian tribe is weak, as were the Tuscaroras, the white men drive it before them. When a tribe is strong, like the O-ya-da-ga-o-no[3] or ourselves, it can resist--for a time."

[3] Cherokees.

He fell silent and his eyes gazed moodily into the smoke of the Council-Fire.

"Why do you say 'for a time'!" I asked.

"Because I mean it," he retorted fiercely. "Think you Ta-wan-ne-ars is ignorant because he is an Indian! But I do my brother an injustice there, for he does not look down upon the Indian as do so many white men.

"No, Ormerod, I tell you it is so. Today the Indian is still strong. He has the protection of the forest. The white man foolishly has given him guns to fight with, and steel axes and knives. But the Indian grows weaker; the white man grows stronger. In the end the Indian must go."

"The People of the Long House?" I cried. "'Tis impossible after the friendship you have shown us."

He eyed me gloomily.

"Friendship counts at the moment; strength counts in the future," he said. "That is the white man's way. Have I not lived amongst them?"

He leaned forward until his face was close to mine.

"When all else fails the white man will use fire-water, what you call rum and the French call brandy. The red man can not resist it--and it ruins him. He becomes a red animal."

"But----"

He would not let me speak.

"And your missionaries told me I must believe in their God!" he went on scornfully. "A God who permits white men to do things the God of the Indians forbids! I said to them:

"'No. I am an Indian. A good Indian is better than a good white man; he is a better Christian, as you call it. And between bad Indians and bad white men there is only a difference in kinds of evil.'"

A warrior entered to report on a mission to a near-by village, and our conversation lapsed. I was to remember it many times in the future and especially during the adventures which were immediately before me.

The next day we started upon the march to Jagara. We had not gone very far on the morning of the second day of our journey when I began to hear what sounded like a muffled roar, not thunder, but the bellowings of some gigantic monster, whose breath could ruffle the trees of the forest. Ta-wan-ne-ars, who had regained his customary good spirits with the prospect of danger and hardship, smiled at my obvious bewilderment.

"'Tis the voice of the Great Falls, brother," he said. "The Thunder Waters."

"Does water make that noise?" I exclaimed.

"Nothing but water."

"'Tis impossible."

"So many have said; and, indeed, the missionaries told me 'twas one of the greatest wonders of the world."

In the early afternoon a mist appeared, overhanging the treetops on the horizon and shot with gorgeous rainbows. The volume of noise increased. It was not deafening. You could speak and converse with ease as you approached it; but it dominated you, made you conscious of a power beyond human effort to subdue.

Yet even so, when we stepped from the trees and the panorama of the cataract lay spread before us, a vast, seething wall of water that swirled and smoked and tossed and fumed in an endless fight for freedom, I was amazed, staggered by the magnitude of the spectacle. Here in the heart of the wilderness, far from civilization, the effect of it was belittling, overwhelming. That mighty flow of water, so resistless, so inevitable in its progress, so unthinkably gigantic, seemed almost as if it might sweep away the fabric of a continent.

I stumbled behind Ta-wan-ne-ars into the trail of the portage which led around the falls. Canoes and goods were transported by this route from the Cadarakui Lake to the Lake of the Eries whence poured this endless stream; it was a main-traveled road between the French posts in Canada and their outflung establishments in the farther wilderness.

We followed it northeastward until twilight, the roar of the falls gradually diminishing behind us, and came at length into an open space upon the banks of the swift-running river which carried the shattered waters into the Cadarakui Lake. Close to the bank stood a flagstaff, and from its summit floated the white ensign of France.

At the foot of the staff, as if resting secure under the folds of the flag, rose the walls of a substantial log house. Behind it were a collection of smaller huts and lodges of bark.

A large, stout man, with very greasy, lanky black hair, hailed us from the log house as we approached.

"_Hola!_" he shouted in French. "Who comes so free from the westward without canoe or fur-packs?"

"A poor, miserable rascal of a forest-runner," I called back gaily.

He discarded an Indian pipe he had been nursing in his hand, and came across to me at a surprizingly rapid gait for one of his build.

"And who might this 'poor, miserable rascal of a forest-runner' be?" he demanded. "These are the King's grounds, and we must know who comes and goes."

"_Mon Dieu!_" I appealed in mock consternation to the stars. "But it is a hard man to deal with! Will you have an objection, _monsieur_, to the name of Jean Courbevoir?"

"None in the world, Jean," he returned promptly, "if you have your trading-permit with you. But who is the good savage with you?"

Nobody had told me anything of a trading-permit, and I fought for time.

"You call him good with justice, _monsieur_-- By the way, what is your name?"

"They call me Joncaire," he said with a trace of grimness.

"Joncaire! _Mort de ma vie!_"

And I appealed with all the precision my memory would permit to the calendar of the saints.

"The very man I have been searching for!"

"What? How is that?" he asked.

"Ah, but that is a tale! I can not believe it now! Am I in very truth on French soil once more?"

"This is the Magazin Royal," he returned. "As for French soil, _mon brave_, I do not see how you could have been off it."

"Off it?" I repeated.

"Off it," he replied impatiently. "Since his Most Catholic Majesty hath a just claim to all lands in these parts--on this side of Hudson's River, at any rate."

"To be sure, to be sure," I assented quickly. "But, Monsieur de Joncaire, you will be interested to know there is an accursed tribe of savages who do not believe as you do."

"Is that so, Jean? And who may they be?"

"The Messesagues."

His face lighted up.

"They are in de Tonty's country. And how is the dear Alphonse?"

"Fleeing for his life, no less."

"Fleeing? How is it he has not come here?"

"Those same accursed Messesagues, _monsieur_. They rose up against us, and Monsieur de Tonty must flee to the northward and make the journey through the country of the Hurons."

"But you escaped?" he pressed.

"Verily, _monsieur_; and 'tis this good savage who walks beside me who did it. He has a kindness for me, and when we were out hunting informed me of the rising against Monsieur de Tonty and escorted me here."

A look of grave concern overspread Joncaire's face.

"Are you certain of this, Jean?"

"Beyond doubt, monsieur; for my friend, the Wolf here, smuggled a message from me to Monsieur de Tonty, who bade me come at once to you that you might hold up all west-bound canoes."

"Aye, Alphonse would have done so," approved Joncaire. "Well, I always told him he would have trouble with the Messesagues. He was too easy with them. They are used to the heavy rule of the Iroquois, and they misunderstand kindness. _Ma foi_! This is bad news you bring, Jean. Was there much loss in furs?"

"Sad! 'Tis very sad!" I said ambiguously. "All gone!"

"And that reminds me," he went on, "you have not shown me your trading-permit."

"Trading-permit, monsieur?" I said. "Why--why--_monsieur_ forgets that I am not a free-trader. I was in Monsieur de Tonty's employ. I had no permit. Nor, indeed, monsieur, have I any furs. Therefore what need would Jean Courbevoir have for a trading-permit?"

"Humph!" he growled. "Have you been long in Canada, Jean!"

"But this year, monsieur."

"And you already speak the tongue of the savages!"

I nearly fell into this trap, but bethought myself of the danger in time.

"Oh, no, _monsieur_; only a word here and there."

"But this savage of yours?"

"Oh, he is like a dog. So faithful, so devoted! And he learns French readily, too."

"Humph!" growled Joncaire again. "And where do you come from, Jean?"

Something in his speech warned me--the liquid slurr of the South.

"I, _monsieur_?" I replied innocently. "Oh, I am of Picardy. But monsieur is of the South--no? of Provence?"

All the suspicion fled from Joncaire's face, and in its stead blossomed a broad smile.

"_Peste!_" he ejaculated. "'Tis a clever lad! And how knew you that, Jean?"

I was overjoyed--and in no need to simulate my sentiments. This was good fortune.

"Was I not camping beside the Regiment de Provence when we were on the Italian frontier! 'Tis a pleasant way those lads have of talking. And such good companions with the bottle!"

"You know, Jean, you know!"

Joncaire was delighted with me.

"Ah, yes, _monsieur_," I asserted modestly. "Ah, for some of that warm Southern wine at this moment instead of the accursed rum. Rum is good only for savages."

"You say truth," applauded Joncaire. "Come your ways within, Jean, and you shall taste of the blood of La Belle France--although it be not our Provence vintage. By the way, do you know Provence?"

"I can not say so with honesty, monsieur," I fenced, "although I have been in Arles."

"In Arles!"

He flung his arms around my neck.

"Jean, I love you, my lad! I was born in St. Remi, which is but a short distance out in the diocese. Does that _sacré_ Henri Ponteuse yet have the tavern at the corner of the Grande Place?"

I decided to take a long leap in the dark, and answered:

"But no, monsieur; he is dead these ten years. 'Tis his----"

I was about to say "son," but luckily Joncaire interrupted in time.

"'Twill be that fine lass, Rosette, his niece!" he exclaimed. "Ah, I knew it."

"And she has taken a husband," I encouraged him, now so far committed that I might not draw back.

"Not young Voisin, the miller's son!"

"No, monsieur; a stranger from a far corner of the diocese. One Michel."

We were now in the entrance of the log house, and Joncaire opened wide the door.

"Jean, you are a lad in a million!" he pronounced. "You shall drink deep. I have some wine which Bigon the _intendant_ fetched out for a few of us--you will understand you must say naught of it hereafter; it never paid duty. Aye, we shall make a fine night of it, and you shall tell me of all that has passed in Arles these many years.

"_Mon Dieu_! I could weep at the thought of the time I have spent in this place of devils; and my children will never know the country that their father came from!"

Ta-wan-ne-ars would have followed us indoors, but Joncaire turned and pushed him down on the doorstep.

"Sit, sit," he said kindly in a tongue which Ta-wan-ne-ars afterward told me was the Messesague dialect. "You shall have your food here."

And to me--

"Our own Indians I will tolerate when I must, but I want no strange savages stealing my stores."

"_Monsieur_ has a family here?" I asked as we took our seats at a rough table in the front room.

"Here! Never! Although I have one son who will soon be able to carry on his father's work."

"One son? That is too bad. Now in Picardy----"

"_Mort de ma vie_! Would you talk to me of your Picards! Young man, each Autumn that I return to Montreal--and it has been many Autumns, let me tell you--Madame de Joncaire has a new little one to introduce to me."

His face softened.

"Bless me if I know how that old lady does it!" he sighed. "We have ten now--or maybe 'tis twelve. But I am not sure. I must count up when I return this year."

He clapped his hands, and a soldier in the undress uniform of the French marine troops, who formed the major part of the garrison of Canada, entered.

"François," announced Joncaire, "this is Jean Courbevoir, who will be my guest until he departs. He has been in Arles, François. Remember that. It should be a part of each young man's training to visit Arles.

"What he orders you will render to him. Now bring us the flagon of wine which Monsieur Bigon sent out this Spring."

The soldier saluted me as if I were a marshal of France, and brought in the flagon of the _intendant's_ wine with the exquisite reverence which only a son of France could bestow upon the choicest product of the soil of France.

"Pour it out, François," commanded Joncaire.

The soldier hesitated.

"And Monsieur de Lery?" he said.

"A thousand million curses!" exploded Joncaire. "Am I to wait for him? Am I to sacrifice my choicest wine in his gullet!"

"Who is Monsieur de Lery?" I asked as François filled a thick mug with the ruby juice.

"What? You do not know him? That is a good one, that! I should like to have had him hear you say it. But do you mean you do not know of him?"

"_Monsieur_ will remember I am of the wilderness," I protested.

"True, true. And this pompous whipper-snapper who sets out to teach Louis Thomas de Joncaire, Sieur de Chabert, his duty, after thirty-five years on the frontier--pah!"

He drained his mug, and pushed it toward François for more.

"But you have not told me who he is, monsieur," I said.

"He is----"

"Monsieur de Lery enters," interposed François with a glance at the doorway.