The Hunters of the Hills by Joseph Altsheler

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The hunter watched Robert as he and Gaston arranged the new Paris styles
with a look that was almost paternal. The fine youth had exceeded
Willet's best hopes. Tall, straight, frank and open, he had the sound
mind in the sound body which is the sum of excellence, and the hunter
was glad to see him particular. It was a part of his heritage, and
became him.

They were not to leave the Inn of the Eagle until after dusk, and Willet
suggested that they should not start until late, as they could walk to
the palace in a few minutes. But Robert said boldly that they would not
walk. It was fitting for the messengers of the Governor of New York to
ride and he would have Monsieur Berryer to call a caleche. Willet
assented with a laugh.

"You're right, Robert," he said, "but I ride so little in carriages that
I didn't think of it."

The night was rather dark, but when the three in the caleche approached
the palace they saw many men holding torches, and many people back of
them watching. The entertainments of Francois Bigot were famous in
Quebec for lavish splendor, and the uninvited usually came in numbers to
see the guests go in.

"Be on your guard tonight, Robert," whispered Willet. "This is a society
to which you're not used, although I'll not deny that you could soon
learn it. But the French think we English, whether English English or
American English, are inferior in wit and quickness to themselves, and
there may be some attempts at baiting the bear before we leave."

Robert felt his breath coming a little more quickly, and in the dusk,
Willet did not see the glow that appeared in his eyes. They might try to
"bait the bear" but he would be ready. The new powers that he had found
in himself not only accepted the challenge, but craved it. He was
conscious that he was not deficient in wit and quickness himself, and
if any follower of Francois Bigot, or if the great Bigot himself tried
to make sport of him he might find instead that the ruffler was
furnishing sport for the Bostonnais. So it was with a beating heart but
no apprehension that he alighted from the caleche with his friends, and
went into the palace to meet the Intendant.

The interior of the great building was a singular mixture of barbaric
and civilized splendor, the American forests and the factories of France
alike being drawn upon for its furnishings. The finest of silken
tapestries and the rarest of furs often hung close together. Beyond the
anterooms was a large hall in which the chosen guests danced while the
people might look on from galleries that surrounded it. These people,
who were not so good as the guests, could dance as much as they pleased
in a second hall set aside exclusively for their use. In another and
more secluded but large room all kinds of games of chance to which Bigot
and his followers were devoted were in progress. In the huge dining-room
the table was set for forty persons, the usual number, until the war
came, when it was reduced to twenty, and Bigot gave a dinner there
nearly every evening, unless he was absent from Quebec.

Robert felt as soon as he entered the palace that he had come into a
strange, new, exotic atmosphere, likely to prove intoxicating to the
young, and he remembered the hunter's words of warning. Yet his spirit
responded at once to the splendor and the call of a gayer and more
gorgeous society than any he had ever known. Wealth and great houses
existed even then in New York and upon occasion their owners made full
use of both, but there was a restraint about the Americans, the English
and the Dutch. Their display was often heavy and always decorous, and in
Quebec he felt for the first time the heedless gayety of the French,
when the Bourbon monarchy had passed its full bloom, and already was in
its brilliant decay. Truly, they could have carved over the doorway,
"Leave all fear and sorrow behind, ye who enter here."

There were lights everywhere, flaming from tall silver candlesticks, and
uniforms, mostly in white and silver, or white with black or violet
facings, were thick in the rooms. Ladies, too, were present, in silk or
satin billowing in many a fold, their powdered hair rolled high in the
style made fashionable by Madame Jeanne Poisson de Pompadour. From an
inner room came the music of a band softly playing French songs or airs
from the Florentine opera. The air was charged with odors of perfume.

It _was_ intoxicating, and yet it was pleasant. No, "pleasant" was not
the word, it was alluring, it played upon the senses, it threw a glow
over the rooms and the people, and the youth saw everything through a
tawny mist that heightened and deepened the colors. He was glad that he
had come. Nor was "glad" the word either. Seeing what he now saw and
knowing what he now knew, he would have blamed himself bitterly had he
stayed away.

"Welcome, Mr. Lennox, my brave and generous opponent of the morning,"
said a voice, and, looking through the tawny mist, he saw the man whom
he had fought and spared, Count Jean de Mezy, in a wonderful coat,
waistcoat and knee breeches of white satin, heavily embroidered, white
silk stockings, and low white shoes with great silver buckles, and a
small gold-hilted sword hanging at his thigh. The cheeks, a trifle too
fat, were mottled again, but his manner like his costume was silken. One
would have thought that he and not Robert was the victor in that trial
of skill by the St. Louis gate.

"Welcome, Mr. Lennox," he said again in a tone that showed no malice.
"The Intendant's ball will be all the more brilliant for the presence of
yourself and your friends. What a splendid figure the young Onondaga
chief makes!"

Tayoga bowed to the compliment, which was rather broad but true, and de
Mezy ran on:

"We are accustomed here to the presence of Indian chiefs. We French have
known how to win the trust and friendship of the warriors and we ask
them to our parlors and our tables as you English do not do, although I
will confess that the Iroquois hitherto have come into Canada as enemies
and not as friends."

"Quebec was once the Stadacona of the Ganeagaono, known to you as the
Mohawks," said Tayoga in his deep musical voice, "and there is no record
that they ever gave or sold it to Onontio."

De Mezy was embarrassed for a moment, but he recovered himself quickly
and laughed.

"You have us there!" he cried, "but it was long, long ago, when Cartier
came to Quebec. Times change and ownerships change with them. We can't
roll back the past."

Tayoga said no more, content to remind the French at intervals that a
brother nation of the Hodenosaunee still asserted its title to Quebec.

"You are not the only member of the great red race present," said de
Mezy to Tayoga. "We have a chief from the far west, a splendid type of
the forest man. What size! What strength! What a mien! By my faith, he
would make a stir in Paris!"

"Tandakora, the Ojibway!" said Robert.

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"We have met him--more than once. We have had dealings with him, and we
may have more. He seems to be interested in what we're doing, and hence
we're never surprised when we see him."

De Mezy looked puzzled, but at that moment de Courcelles and de
Jumonville, wearing uniforms of white and silver, came forward to add
their greeting to those of the count. They were all courtesy and the
words dropped from their lips like honey, but Robert felt that their
souls were not like the soul of de Galisonniere, and that they could not
be counted among the _honnetes gens_. But the three Frenchmen were ready
now to present the three travelers to Monsieur Francois Bigot, Intendant
of Canada, great and nearly all powerful, and Robert judged too that
they had made no complaint against his friends and himself.

Bigot was standing near the entrance to the private dancing room, and
about him was a numerous company, including ladies, among them the wife
of Pean, to whom the gossip of the time gave great influence with him,
and a certain Madame Marin and her sister, Madame de Rigaud, and others.
As the three approached under the conduct of the three Frenchmen the
group opened out, and they were presented in order, Robert first.

The youth was still under the influence of the lights, the gorgeous
rooms and the brilliant company, but he gazed with clear eyes and the
most eager interest at Bigot, whose reputation had spread far, even in
the British colonies. He saw a man of middle years, portly, his red face
sprinkled with many pimples, probably from high living, not handsome and
perhaps at first repellent, but with an expression of vigor and ease,
and an open, frank manner that, at length, attracted. His dress was much
like de Mezy's, but finer perhaps.

Such was the singular man who had so much to do with the wrecking of New
France, a strange compound of energy and the love of luxury, lavish with
hospitality, an untiring worker, a gambler, a profligate, a thief of
public funds, he was also kindly, gracious and devoted to his friends. A
strange bundle of contradictions and disjointed morals, he represented
in the New World the glittering decadence that marked the French
monarchy at home. Now he was smiling as de Mezy introduced Robert with
smooth words.

"Mr. Robert Lennox of Albany and New York," he said, "the brilliant
young swordsman of whom I spoke to you, the one who disarmed me this
morning, but who was too generous to take my life."

Bigot's smiling gaze rested upon Robert, who was conscious, however,
that there was much penetration behind the smile. The Intendant would
seek to read his mind, and perhaps to learn the nature of the letters he
brought, before they were delivered to their rightful owner, the Marquis
Duquesne. Quebec was the home of intrigue, and the Intendant's palace
was the heart of it, but if Robert's pulse beat fast it was with
anticipation and not with fear.

"It was fortune more than skill," he said. "The Count de Mezy credits me
with too much knowledge of the sword."

"No," said Bigot, laughing, "Jean wouldn't do that. He'd credit you with
all you have, and no more. Jean, like the rest of us, doesn't relish a
defeat, do you, Jean?"

De Mezy reddened, but he forced a laugh.

"I suppose that nobody does!" he replied, "but when I suffer one I try
to make the best of it."

"That's an honest confession, Jean," said Bigot, "and you'll feel better
for making it."

He seemed now to Robert bluff, genial, all good nature, and the youth
stood on one side, while Willet and Tayoga were presented in their turn.
Bigot looked very keenly at the Onondaga, and the answering gaze was
fierce and challenging. Robert saw that Tayoga was not moved by the
splendor, the music and the perfumed air, and that he did not forget for
an instant that this gay Quebec of the French was the Stadacona of the
Mohawks, a great brother nation of the Hodenosaunee.

Bigot's countenance fell a little as he met the intensely hostile gaze,
but in a moment he recovered himself and began to pay compliments to
Willet and the Iroquois. Robert felt the charm of his manner and saw why
he was so strong with a great body of the French in New France. Then his
eyes wandered to the others who stood near like courtiers around a king,
and he noticed that foremost among them was a man of mean appearance and
presuming manner, none other, he soon learned, than the notorious Joseph
Cadet, confederate of Bigot, in time to become Commissary General of New
France, the son of a Quebec butcher, who had begun life as a pilot boy,
and who was now one of the most powerful men in those regions of the New
World that paid allegiance to the House of Bourbon. Near him stood Pean,
the Town Mayor of Quebec, a soldier of energy, but deep in corrupt
bargains with Cadet, and just beyond Pean was his partner, Penisseault,
and near them were their wives, of whom scandal spoke many a true word,
and beyond them were the Commissary of Marine, Varin, a Frenchman, small
and insignificant of appearance, the Intendant's secretary, Deschenaux,
the son of a shoemaker at Quebec, Cadet's trusted clerk, Corpron and
Maurin, a humpback.

A strange and varied company, one of the strangest ever gathered in any
outlying capital of a diseased and dying monarchy. Robert, although he
knew that it was corrupt and made a mockery of many things that he had
been taught to reverence, did not yet understand how deadly was the
poison that flowed in the veins of this society. At present, he saw only
the glow and the glitter. All these people were connected closely. The
Canadians intermarrying extensively were a great family, and the
Frenchmen were bound together by the powerful tie, a common interest.

"Don't believe all you see, Robert," whispered Willet. "You're seeing
the surface, and it's hollow, hollow! I tell you!"

"But we have nothing like it at home," said Robert. "We're lucky to
come."

De Mezy had left them, but de Courcelles was near, and he saw that they
were not neglected. Robert was introduced to officers and powerful
civilians and the youngest and handsomest of the ladies, whose freedom
of language surprised him, but whose wit, which played about everything,
pleased a mind peculiarly sensitive to the charm of light and brilliant
talk.

He had never before been in such an assembly, one that contained so much
of rank and experience in the great world. Surrounded by all that he
loved best, the people, the lights, the colors, and the anticipation of
what was to come, the Intendant shone. One forgot his pimply face and
portly figure in the geniality that was not assumed, and the ease of his
manners. He spoke to Robert more than once, asked him many questions
about Albany and New York, and referred incidentally, too, to the
Iroquois, but it was all light, as if he were asking them because of
interest in his guest, or merely to make conversation.

The hues of everything gradually grew brighter and more brilliant to
Robert. The music from the next room steeped his senses, and he began to
feel the intoxication of which Willet had warned him. Many of the guests
were of the noblest families of France, young officers who had come to
Quebec, where it was reported promotion was rapid and sure, or where
younger sons, with the aid of such powerful men as Bigot and Cadet,
could make fortunes out of the customs or in the furnishing of supplies
to the government. Robert found himself talking much, his gift of speech
responding readily to the call. He answered their jests with a jest,
their quips with a quip, and when they were serious so was he. He felt
that while there may have been an undercurrent of hostility when he
entered the palace it had all disappeared now, and he was a favorite, or
at least they took a friendly interest in him, because he was a new type
and they did not think him brusque and rude, as the French believed all
Bostonnais to be.

And through this picturesque throng stalked the two Indians, Tayoga and
Tandakora. The Ojibway wore a feather headdress, and a scarlet blanket
of richest texture was draped around his body, its hem meeting his
finely tanned deerskin leggings, while his feet were encased in beaded
moccasins. Nevertheless he looked, in those surroundings, which belonged
so thoroughly to an exotic civilization, more gigantic and savage than
ever. Robert was well aware that Bigot had brought him there for a
political purpose, to placate and win the western tribes, and to impress
him with the power and dignity of France. But whatever he may have
felt, the Ojibway, towering half a head above the tallest white man,
save Willet, was grim and lowering. His left arm lay in a fold of his
blanket, and, as he held it stiffly, Robert knew that his wound was yet
far from healed. He and Tayoga were careful to keep away from each
other, the Onondaga because he was a guest and was aware of the white
man's amenities, and the Ojibway because he knew it was not the time and
place for his purpose.

They went in to dinner presently and the table of Francois Bigot was
splendid as became the powerful Intendant of New France, who had plenty
of money, who was lavish with it and who, when it was spent, knew where
to obtain more with ease and in abundance. Forty guests sat down, and
the linen, the silver and the china were worthy of the King's palace at
Versailles. A lady was on Robert's right and Colonel de Courcelles was
on his left. Willet and Tayoga were farther down on his own side of the
table, and he could not see them, unless he leaned forward, which he was
too well mannered to do. Bigot sat at the foot of the table and at its
head was Madame Pean, a native of Canada, born Mademoiselle Desmeloizes,
young, handsome and uncommonly vivacious, dressed gorgeously in the
latest Parisian style, and, as Robert put it to himself, coruscating
with talk and smiles.

The dinner progressed amid a great loosening of tongues and much wit.
The perfume from the flowers on the table and the continuous playing of
the band made the air heavier and more intoxicating. It seemed to
Robert that if these people had any cares they had dismissed them all
for the time. Their capacity for pleasure, for snatching at the incense
of the fleeting moment, amazed him. War might be coming, but tonight
there was no thought of it.

Bigot toasted the two Bostonnais and the young Iroquois chief who were
his guests in a flowery speech and Robert responded. When he rose to his
feet he felt a moment of dizziness, because he was so young, and because
he felt so many eyes upon him. But the gift of speech came to his
aid--he was not the golden-mouthed for nothing. The heavy sweet odor of
the roses was in his nostrils, inspiring him to liquid words, and
everything glittered before him.

He had the most friendly feeling for all in the room except Tandakora,
and a new thought coming into his mind he spoke it aloud. He was,
perhaps, in advance of his time, but he told them that New France and
the British colonies could dwell in peace, side by side. Why should they
quarrel? America was vast. British and French were almost lost in its
forests. France and England together could be stowed away in the region
about the Great Lakes and the shades of the wilderness would encompass
them both. The French and British were great races, it was useless to
compare them and undertake to say which was the greater, because each
was great in its own way, and each excelled in its own particulars, but
the two combined were the sum of manly virtues and strength. What the
British lacked the French supplied, and what the French lacked the
British supplied. Together they could rule the world and spread
enlightenment.

He sat down and the applause was great and hearty, because he had spoken
with fervor and well. His head was singing, and he was confused a
little, after an effort that had induced emotion. Moreover, the band had
begun to play again some swaying, lilting dance tune, and his pulses
beat to its measure. But he did lean forward, in spite of his manners,
and caught Willet's approving look, for which he was very glad. He
received the compliments of the lady on his right and of de Courcelles,
then the band ceased presently and he became conscious that Tayoga was
speaking. He had not heard Bigot call upon him, but that he had called
was evident.

Tayoga stood up, tall, calm and dignified. He too had the oratorical
power which was afterward displayed so signally by the Seneca who was
first called by his own people Otetiani and was later known as
Sagoyewatha, but who was known to the white men as Red Jacket.

"I speak to you not as a Frenchman nor as an Englishman," said Tayoga,
"but as a warrior of the clan of the Bear of the nation Onondaga, of the
great League of the Hodenosaunee. Most of this land belonged to our
fathers before ever Englishmen or Frenchmen crossed the great water and
put foot upon these shores. Where you sit now was Stadacona, the village
of our brother race, the Mohawks. Frenchmen or Englishmen may make war
upon one another, or they may make peace with one another, but the
Hodenosaunee cannot be forgotten. There are many beautiful rivers and
lakes and forests to the south and west, but they do not belong to
either Onontio or Corlear. The laws of the fifty sachems who sit in
council in the vale of Onondaga run there, and those who leave them out,
be they French or English, reckon ill. There was a time when Frontenac
came raiding their villages, burning and slaying, but we did not know
the use of firearms then. Now we do know their use and have them, and in
battle we can meet the white man on equal terms, be he English or
French. I have been to the white man's school and I have learned that
there are other great continents beyond the sea. I do not know what may
happen in them, nor does it matter, but in this vast continent which you
call America the wars and treaties of the English and the French are
alike unavailing, unless they consider the wishes of the Hodenosaunee."

He spoke in a manner inexpressibly haughty, and when he had finished he
swept the table from end to end with his challenging glance, then he sat
down amid a deep silence. But they were French. They understood that he
had tossed a glove among them, their quick minds saw that the challenge
was intended not alone for them, but for the English as well, unless the
rights of the Hodenosaunee were respected, and such a speech at such a
time appealed to their gallant instincts. After a moment or two of
silence the applause burst forth in a storm.

"'Twas a fair warning," said de Courcelles in Robert's ear, "and 'twas
meant for us both."

It was on Robert's tongue to reply that the English were included for
the sake of courtesy, as they were the friends of the Hodenosaunee and
always kept faith with them, but second thought stopped the words on his
lips. Then the band began again, playing a warm song of the south from
the Florentine opera, and the talk increased. It seemed to Robert that
everybody spoke at once, and his senses were again steeped in the music
and the perfumed air, and the sound of so many voices. Presently he
realized that some one across the table was speaking to him.

"The Onondaga said bold words in behalf of his league, but can he prove
them true?" the voice was saying.

There was something provocative in his tone, and Robert looked closely
at the speaker. He saw a tall man of at least forty-five, thin but
obviously very powerful and agile. Robert noticed that his wrists were
thick like his own and that his fingers were long and flexible. His face
was freckled, his nose large and curved, giving to his face an
uncommonly fierce appearance, and his eyes were black and set close
together. It was a strong countenance and, when Robert looked at him,
the black brows were drawn together in a frown. His words undoubtedly
had a challenge in them, and the youth replied:

"When Tayoga speaks he speaks from his head as well as his heart, and I
who am his sworn brother, although we are of different races, know that
he doesn't boast when he refers to the power of the Hodenosaunee."

"And may it not be possible, sir, that you have been deceived by your
friendship?"

Robert looked at him in surprise. The man's manner was pointed as if he
were making an issue, and so he did not answer just then, but de
Courcelles by his side leaned forward a little and said:

"Perhaps, Mr. Lennox, you have not yet been introduced formally to the
chevalier, Chevalier Pierre Boucher, who has been only a year from
Paris, but who is already a comrade good and true."

"No, I don't think I've been deceived," replied Robert, keeping his
temper, and bowing to the introduction. "The Hodenosaunee, better known
to you as the Iroquois, are a very powerful league, as many of the
villages of Canada can tell."

The man's face darkened.

"Is it wise," he asked, "to remind us of the ferocious deeds the
Iroquois have done upon us,"

But de Courcelles intervened.

"Peace! Peace, chevalier!" he said in a good-humored tone. "Mr. Lennox
meant no innuendo. He merely stated a fact to prove a contention."

The chevalier subsided into silence, but Robert saw a significant look
pass between them, and instantly he became keen and watchful. What did
it mean? Willet's warning words came back to him. The more he studied
Boucher the less he liked him. With his thin face, and great hooked
nose, and long, bony fingers like talons, he reminded him of some great
bird of prey. He noticed also that while the others were drinking wine,
although he himself did not, the chevalier was the only one within his
view who also abstained.

The dinner was long. One or two of the ladies sang to the music, another
danced, and then de Galisonniere, in a full, round tenor voice, sang
"The Bridge of Avignon."

"Hier sur le pont d'Avignon
J'ai oui chanter la belle
Lon, la,
J'ai oui chanter la belle,
Elle chantait d'un ton si doux
Comme une demoiselle
Lon, la,
Comme une demoiselle."

It was singularly appealing, and for a moment tears came to the eyes of
all those who were born in France. They saw open fields, stone fences,
and the heavy grapes hanging in the vineyards, instead of the huge
rivers, the vast lakes and the mighty wilderness that curved almost to
their feet. But it was only for a moment. This was Quebec, the seat of
the French power in America, and they were in the Intendant's palace,
the very core and heart of it. The laughter that had been hushed for a
thoughtful instant or two came back in full tide, and once more the
Chevalier Pierre Boucher spoke to Robert.

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