Chapter 5: Taming A Spy

Young Lennox undeniably felt exultation. It fairly permeated his system. The taking of Garay had been so easy that it seemed as if the greater powers had put him squarely in their path, and had deprived him of all vigilance, in order that he might fall like a ripe plum into their hands. Surely the face of Areskoui was still turned toward them, and the gods, having had their play, were benevolent of mood--that is, so far as Robert and Tayoga were concerned, although the spy might take a different view of the matter. The triumph, and the whimsical humor that yet possessed him, moved him to flowery speech.

“Monsieur Garay, Achille, my friend,” he said. “You are surprised that we know you so well, but remember that you left a visiting card with us in Albany, the time you sent an evil bullet past my head, and then proved too swift for Tayoga. That’s a little matter we must look into some time soon. I don’t understand why you wished me to leave the world prematurely. It must surely have been in the interest of someone else, because I had never heard of you before in my life. But we’ll pass over the incident now as something of greater importance is to the fore. It was really kind of you, Achille, to sit down there in the middle of the trail, beside a fire that was sure to serve as a beacon, and wait for us to come. It reflects little credit, however, on your skill as a woodsman, and, from sheer kindness of heart, we’re not going to let you stay out in the forest after dark.”

Garay turned a frightened look upon him. It was mention of the bullet in Albany that struck renewed terror to his soul. But Robert, ordinarily gentle and sympathetic, was not inclined to spare him.

“As I told you,” he continued, “Tayoga and I are disposed to be easy with you, but Willet has a heart as cold as a stone. We saw you going to the French and Indian camp, and we laid an ambush for you on your way back. We were expecting to take you, and Willet has talked of you in merciless fashion. What he intends to do with you is more than I’ve been able to determine. Ah, he comes now!”

The parting bushes disclosed a tall figure, rifle ready, and Robert called cheerily:

“Here we are, Dave, back again, and we bring with us a welcome guest. Monsieur Achille Garay was lost in the forest, and, taking pity on him, we’ve brought him in to share our hospitality. Mr. David Willet, Monsieur Achille Garay of everywhere.”

Willet smiled grimly and led the way back to the spruce shelter. To Garay’s frightened eyes he bore out fully Robert’s description.

“You lads seem to have taken him without trouble,” he said. “You’ve done well. Sit down, Garay, on that log; we’ve business with you.”

Garay obeyed.

“Now,” said the hunter, “what message did you take to St. Luc and the French and Indian force?”

The man was silent. Evidently he was gathering together the shreds of his courage, as his back stiffened. Willet observed him shrewdly.

“You don’t choose to answer,” he said. “Well, we’ll find a way to make you later on. But the message you carried was not so important as the message you’re taking back. It’s about you, somewhere. Hand over the dispatch.”

“I’ve no dispatch,” said Garay sullenly.

“Oh, yes, you have! A man like you wouldn’t be making such a long and dangerous journey into the high mountains and back again for nothing. Come, Garay, your letter!”

The spy was silent.

“Search him, lads!” said Willet.

Garay recoiled, but when the hunter threatened him with his pistol he submitted to the dextrous hands of Robert and Tayoga. They went through all his pockets, and then they made him remove his clothing piece by piece, while they thrust the points of their knives through the lining for concealed documents. But the steel touched nothing. Then they searched his heavy moccasins, and even pulled the soles loose, but no papers were disclosed. There was nowhere else to look and the capture had brought no reward.

“He doesn’t seem to have anything,” said Robert.

“He must have! He is bound to have!” said the hunter.

“You have had your look,” said Garay, a note of triumph showing in his voice, “and you have failed. I bear no message because I am no messenger. I am a Frenchman, it is true, but I have no part in this war. I am not a soldier or a scout. You should let me go.”

“But that bullet in Albany.”

“I did not fire it. It was someone else. You have made a mistake.”

“We’ve made no mistake,” said the hunter. “We know what you are. We know, too, that a dispatch of great importance is about you somewhere. It is foolish to think otherwise, and we mean to have it.”

“I carry no dispatch,” repeated Garay in his sullen, obstinate tones.

“We mean that you shall give it to us,” said the hunter, “and soon you will be glad to do so.”

Robert glanced at him, but Willet did not reveal his meaning. It was impossible to tell what course he meant to take, and the two lads were willing to let the event disclose itself. The same sardonic humor that had taken possession of Robert seemed to lay hold of the older man also.

“Since you’re to be our guest for a while, Monsieur Garay,” he said, “we’ll give you our finest room. You’ll sleep in the spruce shelter, while we spread our blankets outside. But lest you do harm to yourself, lest you take into your head some foolish notion to commit suicide, we’ll have to bind you. Tayoga can do it in such a manner that the thongs will cause you no pain. You’ll really admire his wonderful skill.”

The Onondaga bound Garay securely with strips, cut from the prisoner’s own clothing, and they left him lying within the spruce shelter. At dawn the next day Willet awoke the captive, who had fallen into a troubled slumber.

“Your letter,” he said. “We want it.”

“I have no letter,” replied Garay stubbornly.

“We shall ask you for it once every two hours, and the time will come when you’ll be glad to give it to us.”

Then he turned to the lads and said they would have the finest breakfast in months to celebrate the good progress of their work.

Robert built up a splendid fire, and, taking their time about it, they broiled bear meat, strips of the deer they had killed and portions of wild pigeon and the rare wild turkey. Varied odors, all appetizing, and the keen, autumnal air gave them an appetite equal to anything. Yet Willet lingered long, seeing that everything was exactly right before he gave the word to partake, and then they remained yet another good while over the feast, getting the utmost relish out of everything. When they finally rose from their seats on the logs, two hours had passed since Willet had awakened Garay and he went back to him.

“Your letter?” he said.

“I have no letter,” replied Garay, “but I’m very hungry. Let me have my breakfast.”

“Your letter?”

“I’ve told you again and again that I’ve no letter.”

“It’s now about 8:30 o’clock; at half past ten I’ll ask you for it again.”

He went back to the two lads and helped them to put out the fire. Garay set up a cry for food, and then began to threaten them with the vengeance of the Indians, but they paid no attention to him. At half past ten as indicated by the sun, Willet returned to him.

“The letter?” he said.

“How many times am I to tell you that I have no letter?”

“Very well. At half past twelve I shall ask for it again.”

At half past twelve Garay returned the same answer, and then the three ate their noonday meal, which, like the breakfast, was rich and luscious. Once more the savory odors of bear, deer, wild turkey and wild pigeon filled the forest, and Garay, lying in the doorway of the hut, where he could see, and where the splendid aroma reached his nostrils, writhed in his bonds, but still held fast to his resolution.

Robert said nothing, but the sardonic humor of both the Onondaga and the hunter was well to the fore. Holding a juicy bear steak in his hand, Tayoga walked over to the helpless spy and examined him critically.

“Too fat,” he said judicially, “much too fat for those who would roam the forest. Woodsmen, scouts and runners should be lean. It burdens them to carry weight. And you, Achille Garay, will be much better off, if you drop twenty pounds.”

“Twenty pounds, Tayoga!” exclaimed Willet, who had joined him, a whole roasted pigeon in his hands. “How can you make such an underestimate! Our rotund Monsieur would be far more graceful and far more healthy if he dropped forty pounds! And it behooves us, his trainers and physicians, to see that he drops ‘em. Then he will go back to Albany and to his good friend, Mynheer Hendrik Martinus, a far handsomer man than he was when he left. It may be that he’ll be so much improved that Mynheer Hendrik will not know him. Truly, Tayoga, this wild pigeon has a most savory taste! When wild pigeon is well cooked and the air of the forest has sharpened your appetite to a knife edge nothing is finer.”

“But it is no better than the tender steak of young bear,” said Tayoga, with all the inflections of a gourmand. “The people of my nation and of all the Indian nations have always loved bear. It is tenderer even than venison and it contains more juices. For the hungry man nothing is superior to the taste or for the building up of sinews and muscles than the steak of fat young bear.”

Garay writhed again in his bonds, and closed his eyes that he might shut away the vision of the two. Robert was forced to smile. At half past two, as he judged it to be by the sun, Willet said to Garay once more:

“The papers, Monsieur Achille.”

But Garay, sullen and obstinate, refused to reply. The hunter did not repeat the question then, but went back to the fire, whistling gayly a light tune. The three were spending the day in homely toil, polishing their weapons, cleaning their clothing, and making the numerous little repairs, necessary after a prolonged and arduous campaign. They were very cheerful about it, too. Why shouldn’t they be? Both Tayoga and the hunter had scouted in wide circles about the camp, and had seen that there was no danger. For a vast distance they and their prisoner were alone in the forest. So, they luxuriated and with abundance of appetizing food made up for their long period of short commons.

At half past four Willet repeated his question, but the lips of the spy remained tightly closed.

“Remember that I’m not urging you,” said the hunter, politely. “I’m a believer in personal independence and I like people to do what they want to do, as long as it doesn’t interfere with anybody else. So I tell you to think it over. We’ve plenty of time. We can stay here a week, two weeks, if need be. We’d rather you felt sure you were right before you made up your mind. Then you wouldn’t be remorseful about any mistake.”

“A wise man meditates long before he speaks,” said Tayoga, “and it follows then that our Achille Garay is very wise. He knows, too, that his figure is improving already. He has lost at least five pounds.”

“Nearer eight I sum it up, Tayoga,” said Willet. “The improvement is very marked.”

“I think you are right, Great Bear. Eight it is and you also speak truly about the improvement. If our Monsieur Garay were able to stand up and walk he would be much more graceful than he was, when he so kindly marched into our guiding hands.”

“Don’t pay him too many compliments, Tayoga. They’ll prove trying to a modest man. Come away, now. Monsieur Garay wishes to spend the next two hours with his own wise thoughts and who are we to break in upon such a communion?”

“The words of wisdom fall like precious beads from your lips, Great Bear. For two hours we will leave our guest to his great thoughts.”

At half past six came the question, “Your papers?” once more, and Garay burst forth with an angry refusal, though his voice trembled. Willet shrugged his shoulders, turned away, and helped the lads prepare a most luxurious and abundant evening meal, Tayoga adding wild grapes and Robert nuts to their varied course of meats, the grapes being served on blazing red autumn leaves, the whole very pleasing to the eye as well as to the taste.

“I think,” said Willet, in tones heard easily by Garay, “that I have in me just a trace of the epicure. I find, despite my years in the wilderness, that I enjoy a well spread board, and that bits of decoration appeal to me; in truth, give an added savor to the viands.”

“In the vale of Onondaga when the fifty old and wise sachems make a banquet,” said Tayoga, “the maidens bring fruit and wild flowers to it that the eye also may have its feast. It is not a weakness, but an excellence in Great Bear to like the decorations.”

They lingered long over the board, protracting the feast far after the fall of night and interspersing it with pleasant conversation. The ruddy flames shone on their contented faces, and their light laughter came frequently to the ears of Garay. At half past eight the question, grown deadly by repetition, was asked, and, when only a curse came, Willet said:

“As it is night I’ll ask you, Achille Garay, for your papers only once every four hours. That is the interval at which we’ll change our guard, and we don’t wish, either, to disturb you many times in your pleasant slumbers. It would not be right to call a man back too often from the land of Tarenyawagon, who, you may know, is the Iroquois sender of dreams.”

Garay, whom they had now laid tenderly upon the floor of the hut, turned his face away, and Willet went back to the fire, humming in a pleased fashion to himself. At half past twelve he awoke Garay from his uneasy sleep and propounded to him his dreadful query, grown terrifying by its continual iteration. At half past four Tayoga asked it, and it was not necessary then to awake Garay. He had not slept since half past twelve. He snarled at the Iroquois, and then sank back on the blanket that they had kindly placed for him. Tayoga, his bronze face expressing nothing, went back to his watch by the fire.

Breakfast was cooked by Robert and Willet, and again it was luscious and varied. Robert had risen early and he caught several of the fine lake trout that he broiled delicately over the coals. He had also gathered grapes fresh with the morning dew, and wonderfully appetizing, and some of the best of the nuts were left over. Bear, deer, venison and turkey they still had in abundance.

The morning itself was the finest they had encountered so far. Much snow had fallen in the high mountains, but winter had not touched the earth here. The deep colors of the leaves, moved by the light wind, shifted and changed like a prism. The glorious haze of Indian summer hung over everything like a veil of finest gauze. The air was surcharged with vitality and life. It was pleasant merely to sit and breathe at such a time.