10 A Knight of France

We did not follow directly upon the Indian trail, knowing that such would be a vain proceeding, and bristling with danger. Impatience must yield to prudence—a necessity nearly always present in the life of the frontiersman—and so we turned in a great curve with a general northwesterly direction, and sped on our path as fast as the breath of Winchester, the slowest of the party, would permit us.

The village of the Wyandots was far away on the shores of Lake Huron, and I was convinced that Hoyoquim, her captor, knowing of St. Clair’s advance, had not found time to take Rose Carew there; it was probable, therefore, that he had left her at the village of the Miamis, and I wished to learn as soon as possible the truth or falsity of my surmise.

Both Osseo and I knew the country, and by turns we led the way, no one of the three speaking, but hastening on, intent upon our errand, until about the midnight hour or a little beyond it, when Osseo, who was then in advance, stopped and pointed with his forefinger. I saw far in the forest a faint gleam, no more than that of a firefly, but steady, and to the eye of a frontiersman significant.

“What do you think it is, Osseo?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Looks like a camp fire,” he replied, “but can’t say. Maybe not, maybe so. Suppose we see?”

His suggestion was quite appropriate, as no true forester ever passes by anything unexplained, not even a trifle, not to mention such an important matter as a light in the night.

We pushed our way carefully among the trees, and there was good need of caution, as I have seldom seen a more dense growth of forest and underbrush. The soil beneath our feet was as black as tar, and everything seemed to have grown upon it spontaneously. Twigs and boughs were so thick that, despite the fall of the leaves, we could scarce see the sky overhead. Coming thus through a screen almost impervious, the light did not grow rapidly, but remained steady, and we were soon confirmed in our belief that it was a camp fire.

“Some great fool,” repeated Osseo. “He lies down to sleep by the warm fire, and when he wakes he may find his scalp swinging at the belt of the Miami or Wyandot.”

Yet it seemed incredible to me that any one should go to sleep alone, even beside his own bed of coals, in a country infested by hostile Indians and not twenty miles from the scene of St. Clair’s great defeat. I had no doubt, however, that Osseo was right.

We continued our approach, Winchester making his way with great difficulty through the bushes and briers, but doing very well for one of his limited experience. As we came near, a most appetizing odour arose; it told of frying venison and beaver tail.

“The man does not sleep,” said Osseo.

His remark was superfluous. The stranger or strangers, whoever he or they might be, evidently were engaged in cooking supper, late though the hour was. In truth, it must be a man or men with the most childlike faith in the innocence of the wilderness. Osseo was a little in advance, and lying down he crept closer, while we crouched in the brushwood, awaiting his report, but he stopped when he had gone a few yards, and signalled to us. We approached, and then we heard distinctly a low, humming sound. It came from the vicinity of the fire, and I recognised it as the voice of somebody who sang softly to himself.

“It is one man!” said Osseo. “Behold!”

I rose to my knees and looked over the tops of the bushes, getting a view of the camp fire and the man who sat beside it, or rather moved about it. As well as I could see, he was young, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a fair face. His dress was a strange mixture of the American frontier style and Old World fashion, being composed of tanned deerskin except the coat, which was a sort of tunic of black velvet trimmed with silver lace, and the hat, which was a splendid three-cornered affair, also adorned with silver lace.

He carried a pistol and knife in his belt, and his rifle lay on the ground at least ten feet from him, which on the frontier is a most rash and foolish distance. But the stranger seemed to have never a care. The song that he hummed was gay and careless in tone, as if dealing with love and war, and he bestowed not a single look upon the Indian-haunted wilderness about him. All his attention was reserved for the late supper which he alternately cooked and ate, cutting most appetizing strips from a haunch of venison and grilling them over the coals on the end of a sharp stick. Near him lay a small leather case bound with silver, which evidently contained baggage.

Winchester snuffed the odour of the venison.

“It makes me hungry,” he said.

But the stranger’s appetite was nearly satisfied when we arrived, and in a few moments he ceased his culinary operations and threw away the sharp stick. Then he lifted a blanket from the ground and spread it over a fallen log, turning the next moment to the little silver-bound case, which he unlocked with a key. He lifted from this a very much smaller case, and after relocking the first opened the second.

“What under the sun is he about?” whispered Winchester.

The stranger took from the little case three or four hollow and polished pieces of wood, mounted with silver, and fitted them together. Then he sat on the blanket-covered log and put his mouth to one of the little holes in the tube.

“He is about to make music,” whispered Osseo. “Lo! the strange white man is in the keeping of Manito. He is mad.”

“Listen!” said Winchester.

The man began to play the flute—not like a mere amateur, not like one who blows his breath into a piece of hollow wood that he may hear himself make a noise, but like one who played because the soul of music was in him; in truth, like a master. His own face proved it, because, serving as a mirror for the mind beneath, it showed that his thoughts wandered away with the music to whatever land of fancy the latter led. It was a mellow note, at times low and pathetic, then wild and high, and I too, like the player, wandered with it; I saw my boyhood, the great days in the early years of the war with my brave comrades, felt the fire of battle, endured my disgrace a second time, and beheld Rose Carew’s face again. I looked at Osseo; his eyes glistened. It was instinctive in this noble man to love music, and I wondered where he was roving on the note of the flute. But I did not dream of asking him.

The player ceased, took his flute apart again, and returned it to the box.

“Lo! he is mad and in the keeping of Manito,” repeated Osseo. “He walks the forest as safe as the papoose in its father’s wigwam.”

He spoke of the fact, so well known, that the Indians consider all insane people in the special keeping of the Great Spirit, and therefore never harm them, no matter what their race. But the man turned toward us a clear-cut, thoughtful face, and I saw well enough that he was not mad, at least according to white standards—perhaps all whites are mad according to red standards. The features were of one not over thirty, and seemed French to me, much like those of the gallant young men of high birth who came over to help us in the last days of the Revolutionary contest.

“Let us speak to him, Osseo,” I said.

Rising, we walked into the little glade in which the stranger had pitched his tent—I say tent metaphorically, as besides his arms he had only a blanket and the little leather case and its contents. He showed no surprise at our approach, receiving us with a politeness which was neither slight nor overdone, but just what it should be.

“Will you share my fire?” he said. “I have no seat to offer save this log, which is at a convenient distance, but not so soft as a chair. Sit there and let me fry you some venison. It is of the best quality, I assure you. Sapristi! I should know. I have never eaten better from the king’s own forest.”

We would travel fast, but we knew that food was necessary to those who would arrive in time, and we sat silently upon the log, awaiting the service of this strange man, who upon his own part proceeded with much deliberation.

“Are you aware,” I asked, when I had eaten a slice of the venison, “that your life is in the utmost danger?”

“I did not know it,” he replied calmly. “Not from you three, at least. You have accepted my hospitality, you have broken bread with me, you have eaten of my salt, and it would be a wicked deed now to turn a hostile face toward me.”

He looked at the three of us closely and then smiled.

“No,” he said, “I do not fear you.”

“I did not mean that there was danger from us,” I continued. “All this region is infested by Indians of the most warlike and ferocious nature, and you are now not more than a half day’s journey from the villages of the Miamis, the most powerful of the tribes.”

“I am not an American,” he replied, “and the savages are not at war with my nation nor me.”

“But you are a white man, and the savages do not make nice distinctions. They might shoot you first and make the inquiry as to your nationality afterward.”

“I take the chances. Would this life be pleasant and interesting unless chance played so great a part in it? I surmise not.”

“At all events, you can not be as indifferent as you pretend,” I persisted.

“And at all events,” he replied quickly, “the precision of your language and your manner indicate that you are not the mere hunter you seem.”

It was obvious that I could not get at him by such manner of questioning, and so I told him of St. Clair’s defeat and the slaughter, and then of our errand. His eyes kindled into interest as I proceeded with the narrative, and he made many comments in a quick, sharp way.

“It was a trap,” he said, when I concluded, “and a raw army following a blind general walked into it. We French have our faults, but we would never do that. We are the best woodsmen, we know the Indian, we can make ourselves his friends, we learn his ways; we find the land first and we give it a name, but what does it profit us? The blind Saxon in the end takes it from us.”

He was sad momentarily, and stared into the coals, but then his face brightened, and he said quite cheerily:

“Now you have told me who you are, and it is fitting that I should tell you of myself. The courtesy of the wilderness demands it. I am Hector de Chamillard, baron of France. I do not mention the title as a boast, but as an explanation, and the name Hector has no significance in my case. My barony was wasted, not by me, but before my time, until there is naught left save for the money lender and the tax gatherer. The wars are over for the moment, and since the birth of Hector de Chamillard does not allow him to work, he brings himself to the New World in the vague hope of finding a good fairy, and, moreover, to see the splendid regions which France has owned and lost—it would take him a long time and the circuit of the globe to see them all; so I am at present, and contrary to your supposition, a mere wanderer.”

“But great events have been happening in that France of yours,” I said. “Rumours of them are coming even here to us in the American woods. A cool head and a bold mind might make a high place there for themselves.”

“I have heard them, too,” he replied, the momentary sadness returning to his face, “and that is the best reason of all why I can not return to France now. By birth I am with the nobility, by sympathy with the peasantry. My position is very difficult: my birth does not allow me to associate with men of my own sympathies, and my sympathies do not allow me to associate with men of my own birth; so I remain in the forest until I can see a path clear before me. Truly it is a great forest, and man may admire.”

He looked up at the dark woods which encircled us like a wall.

“And you will not go back to France?” I asked.

“I do not say that,” he replied. “I do not scorn civilization; far from it. Paris has many delights, and it is still the capital of the world. I could take my pleasures there if circumstances were fitting; meanwhile I take them here. I hunt and explore, and man so far has not disturbed me; the forest is my dining-room, and my good rifle the gargon who serves me with a bill of fare that pleases me. I wander where I will, and see mountains, great rivers, and great lakes; my life is not bare, and it will please me in my old age to remember these things.”

Clearly the man was a philosopher, and I could appreciate his resignation, having in mind my own case.

“I have been in Paris, too,” said Winchester, who had not spoken hitherto, “and I know its contrast with this forest. But you are right when you say that each has its pleasures.”

De Chamillard looked inquiringly at Winchester.

“You are an Englishman, I take it,” he said, “and you and I have been enemies for a thousand years. Let us be friends for the moment. Your hand, Mr. Winchester.”

Winchester extended his hand frankly, and the Frenchman shook it with heartiness. We four stood there a moment—the Indian, the American, the Englishman, and the Frenchman—but in perfect accord. Then I gave the Frenchman a parting salute, as we did not have time to tarry, but he put his rifle on one shoulder and his portmanteau on the other and said:

“Messieurs, I travel with you.”

“Ours,” I said, “is an errand full of danger, in which you would be involved.”

“I have heard your story; there is a beautiful lady who must be rescued, and since I have been a knight errant of no use, I should now become a knight errant of some use. I shall help you.”

It was said with an air of decision and finality that showed him a man of courage and will, and likely to prove a strong addition to our party. Moreover, a sudden idea concerning him occurred to me, so I said:

“Come with us and be sure that you do not lose your flute.”

“Part with my best friend? On the faith of a De Chamillard I swear not! But why do you value my flute?”

“Because you play it so beautifully.”

He took off his cocked hat and made me a sweeping bow.

“I thank you for your compliment, which I know was intended as an evasion of my question,” he said. “And now lead on; I follow.”

Thus, and without further discourse, we adopted him into our party, resuming our journey through the woods.

Winchester and De Chamillard dropped a little in the rear presently, and talked in low tones.

“Of what do they speak?” I asked Osseo.

Dark as the night was, I distinctly saw a twinkle in the eyes of the chief.

“The Frenchman and the Englishman,” he said, “conduct a great war between themselves. They go back many, many moons, and they tell of mighty battles in which the children of Onontio⁸ and the children of Corlear⁹ fought against each other, and lo! as one tells it the children of Onontio have always won, and as the other tells it the children of Corlear have always won. Manito alone knows which is right; he has not given to Osseo the wisdom to judge between them.”

“You think them both mad, Osseo?” I asked.

He shook his head sorrowfully.

“It is the will of Manito,” he replied, “that it shall take many kinds of men to make his world, and who is Osseo, to question his wisdom?”

But I knew full well that Osseo’s conviction of their madness did not injure them in his good opinion. It was part of his lofty nature to consider it a quality with which they had been endowed specially by God, and hence entitled to all respect and consideration; I say again that perhaps there was something in his claim of red superiority over the white race.

►   ▲